


Visions of Gideon | Technoblade Novelisation

by AlexandraMariaAnna



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Sleepy Boys Inc, Technoblade - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF, mcyt
Genre: Blood, Burns, Gen, Nightmares, a body is buried, about techno being a good big brother, after i said i would never write a techno fanfic because i am afraid of this mans peer review powers, anyways pain, don't be confused at the beginning, graphic descriptions of blood injury and trauma, here i am writing a techno fanfic, puts clown nose on, ravage me in the comments, this aint gonna be second heatwaves but i hope yall enjoy it at least a little bit, this has a shit ton of original character because i wanted to make this actually engaging so, this is heavily inspired by a tiktok i once saw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexandraMariaAnna/pseuds/AlexandraMariaAnna
Summary: he grew up adored just to be torn downput the pieces together to find a clue to the broken boy hidden under the monstrous personabrother? who's a brother?dad.where did he go wrong?---I suppose you could call this the Technoblade Storymode.
Relationships: Mostly father-son relationships we don't ship real people here, Philza being a dad to Techno, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Will being the shitass younger brother, also brother brother relationships, i'm just joking will isn't a shitass younger brother he just gets jealous easily
Comments: 56
Kudos: 179





	1. Invictus

His name always felt like honey when it fell from her lips. She called him with love, she called him with care and adoration. He was her little boy, and she was his mother, one with warm arms to shelter him from the snow, and with stories to fill his head with wonder. 

He adored her soft skin and the way she smelled like almonds and old books, and he grinned when she put the large, heavy crown on his head when no one was looking. It was crooked, and it usually fell off within minutes, but for these few moments he was a king, and she was just a woman who gave birth to him, one that he swore to protect with his life to thank her for her love. 

He wondered often about his father, but he hated the way his mother’s smile fell when he asked; thus, he stopped asking. Looking at himself in the mirror, he wondered; were his father’s eyes as black as his? Did his hair have the same pink color? Did he have freckles? His mother’s skin was porcelain pale, so they had to come from his father’s side of the family.  
He created an image of his father in his head; a warm, yet strict man who would praise him when he did well during sword practice and etiquette lessons and give him guidance to become better, and when the wet nurse tucked him in, covering him with richly embroidered comforters, he could swear he heard a deep, gentle voice bidding him good night. The bed smelled like lavender and almonds, and he slept with a smile, like a child he was, unaware of the rot that bubbled outside of the thick walls of the castle. 

He learned how to dance, and in the evenings, in front of the fireplace, he would practice with his mother, who seemed to get shorter and shorter as the years passed by; was he the one getting taller? He would spin her around, and she would giggle like a young maiden when he kissed her hand. Waltzes were her favorite, and the one-two-three rhythm echoed in the chambers deep into the night, as they both spun and laughed, mother and son, two bound souls. 

When the teacher began bringing in books about the arts of war instead of fairytales about mythical heroes and beasts who brought chaos, he didn’t pay it heed; it was a reading material nevertheless, and an interesting one at that. When he first brought up the theories of war to his mother, he swore he saw her smile waver for a moment, before she engaged him in a long, detailed conversation about strategy, theory, and application. Was it then that she realized that the boy in front of her was no longer a child? He sat in the same armchair his father used to sit in, and he was quickly growing even taller than him – his coming of age ceremony was closing in, scheduled for the first snowfall next year. Still, he was her son, her boy, her child, and even though they talked about bloodshed and conquer, she still combed his hair and kissed his cheek when he returned from his studies. 

He adored the blade, and the blade favored him. He was quick and nimble, quickly gaining a reputation amongst the guards and swordsmanship teachers. With a smile on his face, he knocked the swords out of his opponent’s hands, and he claimed them as their own, laughing happily at his victory. He was beloved in the training grounds, and his mother often sat by the window to her study while working, just to hear his cheers and bubbly laughter. Her pride couldn’t fit in her chest; her son was growing up handsome, strong, and intelligent, but most importantly, happy. 

As she handed yet another order to the general, she thought of his smile and the warm way in which he called out to her, and the ice in the throne room felt almost bearable.   
He was a son of winter, born minutes after the start of the new year; the priests declared it a blessing from God and a mark of a prophesied ruler. His cheeks were pink as his mother held him and spoke his name for the first time, her words like morning dew, her touch like feathers. When he walked into the common room on the day of his coming of age ceremony, his cheeks were just as rosy as on the day he was born, and she laughed as she put down the book she was reading, kissing her son on the forehead when he bowed down to greet her. 

“Happy Birthday, sweet thing.” She whispered, and sweet thing felt honey on his tongue.   
“Thank you, Mother.” He answered, and she smiled, filling the room with light. 

They chatted briefly, going over the schedule for that important day, making jokes about the nobles that would be attending the ball in the evening. They would have talked longer (oh, how he wished that they talked longer that day), but he was quickly ushered out of the room by his personal attendant, who chirped on and on about sitting down to breakfast, bathing, doing paperwork, and changing into the intricate outfit that was prepared for tonight. As he passed the doorway, his mother waved at him and he shot her a wide smile, one that made his mother’s face bloom into the same expression.

A thirteen-year-old boy sat in front of his mirror, smelling like lavender and almonds, his hair still slightly damp. His attendant was in the process of drying it gently with a pristine cloth. He never saw her face; it was always covered by a thin white veil, but she was always at his beck and call, and he appreciated the anonymous devotion. His short pink locks framed his face. Usually, it would be his mother that would brush them and style them, but today? Today he needed extra care. Today was his debut into the high society – today he was going to be officially presented as the Crown Prince of the country, as his mother’s successor. 

The ornate comb glided through his hair, pushing the pink hair away from his eyes. He has grown during the last years. He lost the baby fat from his face, his eyebrows were thicker, the small fangs that used to poke him in the upper lip now protruded proudly, the symbol of his royal lineage. He was wearing clothes he has never seen before, ones that the attendant brought in with a skip in her step. A pristine white shirt, fitting black pants, boots with a golden buckle, a corset, a red satin sash – he knew them only from the books, describing the previous kings. Pride swelled in his chest as he looked at himself in the mirror. The woman grabbed a simple golden crown, a symbol of his status, and placed it on his head, the ring fitting his head like it was made especially for him. He looked like the next king. He smiled at his image, adjusting his collar, all while ignoring the scolding of his attendant who stepped away just for a moment to grab something from his bed. 

“Your Majesty, please don’t fiddle with the collar! The button is hanging on by a thread, and Elisabeth isn’t here to sew it back on before the ceremony if it breaks!” she huffed as she grabbed a bundle of red fabric from the bed so gently, as if it would break if she squeezed it too tightly. “If you would please stand up, I need to attach the cape, sir.”   
The man sighed, pushing back the ornate chair as he stood up, towering over the servant, who had to slightly crane her head up to look him in the eye.   
“I thought I told you to call me by my name, Iskra.” He said, turning around. Iskra shook her head, draping the heavy material over his shoulders, fiddling with the golden chain that kept it together.  
“That won’t do, Your Majesty. If Queen Mother heard me addressing you with such frivolity, I don’t think I would keep my head on my shoulders.”  
The chain snapped into place as the prince laughed heartily, adjusting the fur that now covered his shoulders. He turned back around, allowing the attendant to make last corrections; patting down the stray wrinkle on the shirt or double-checking if no thread is hanging loose.   
“My mother adores all of the servants. There is no way she would get angry at you over something so trivial. Just do it, Iskra. Make it my birthday present.” He said, and the woman hidden behind the veil sighed, giving up. 

His name leaves her lips once, and he grins, bowing to her as if she was a lady asked to dance. 

The attendant smiled as she left the room, explaining that the chamberlain will come get him once the ball has begun. He could already hear the wheels of the carriages pulling up to the palace, and it took every ounce of his self-restraint not to look out through the mirror-like a gawking child. He entertained himself with a book that he has already read from cover to cover many times, awaiting the knock at the dark, wooden door. The pages of the book were wrinkled, and he swore a page was missing from chapter seventeen, but he read on nevertheless, whispering more impactful paragraphs to himself. Someone brought him a cup of water and a snack, and he devoured it within seconds, his eyes not tearing from the old pages.   
“Your Majesty?”  
“Hm?”  
“It’s time for us to go.”  
“Hm. Give me a moment.”  
“Your Majesty, the archduke has arrived, you are required to greet him-“

The book slammed shut, startling the chamberlain who collected the empty dishes on the desk that was pushed against the window. The young prince clicked his tongue in annoyance as he gently set the book down as if he was trying to apologize to the inanimate object for treating it so roughly.   
“I was hoping he wouldn’t come. Did he bring his son with him?” he asked, taking one last glance at the full-body mirror. The chamberlain avoided his eyes, and the man felt all solace and happiness leave his body. “I’ll assume that’s a yes, Leon.”  
“You’re correct, my lord.”  
“Damn.”

He walked out of his room without saying anything further. The cape that was placed so gingerly on his shoulders now flapped behind him as he walked down one of the many corridors of the castle, heading for the courtyard. Everyone he passed instantly stopped in their tracks, bowing to him as he walked by, and it was a small triumph that made this soon to be sour situation a bit more bearable. Someone tried to inquire about something related to the ball as he stomped down the halls towards the entrance, but he simply waved his hand and they went quiet. Another person raced after him, their long skirt hiked up and breath heavy; it was probably Iskra, who had orders to follow him as his attendant. He slowed down just the tiniest bit, allowing the woman to catch her breath.   
It didn’t take him long to arrive at his destination; the handmaidens and butlers that stood by the doors, awaiting the archduke’s luggage instantly folded themselves into a ninety-degree bow, returning to standby only when he dismissed them. On the other side of the heavy, oaken door laughter rang out, both male and female – his mother has already met the archduke. The prince took a moment to compose himself, calm down the anger that was bubbling in his stomach, and only then did he walk outside, gaining the attention of the small party that was stationed by the landing of the grand stairs. 

“Crown Prince! It’s such a pleasure to see you again, congratulations on this grand occasion!” A man, shorter than the boy by at least a head spoke, extending his hand for a shake as the prince descended the stairs. For a second, he wanted not to return the gesture, but his mother’s inquisitive glance cleared that thought from his head. He gripped the archduke’s hand tightly, and the man in front of him roared with deep, guttural laughter. “Ho! Your Majesty, you’ve grown so strong! Your hands are so calloused too, you must have worked hard on your swordsmanship!”   
“Thank you, Archduke Squid. I’ve been training daily.” He answered dryly and shook the hand off, discreetly wiping it against his cape. He swore he could hear Iskra’s soul leave her body behind him.   
Archduke Anastasius Squid was someone who could be considered one of the hearts of the empire; only the Queen and the royal family had more power than him. Anastasius, however, unlike the royal family, had one fatal flaw – he still was able to socially climb, and even though Crown Prince’s mother has assured him many times that Anastasius has no ill will against the throne, he could see the way the Archduke looked at him and his mother.   
An obstacle, that’s all they were to him, and gossip about him gathering a military force in his land that was spreading across the country didn’t help his cause. Crown Prince avoided contact with him as much as possible. During audiences, he didn’t speak. During banquets, he didn’t even look at him. Still, the pest kept coming back, and that day, he was not able to avoid his grubby hands that most likely itched to snatch the crown from his head.   
“You just have to spar with my son one day! Perhaps you could come to our estate before Eliot’s coming of age ceremony? It’s scheduled for early spring; we’ll make sure an invitation is sent to the palace. Right, Eliot?” The Archduke stepped to the side, revealing a lanky boy who was currently making his way out of the carriage. Even though the Crown Prince and Eliot Squid were nearly the same age, they couldn’t have looked more different. Their builds were completely different; the young master of the Squid house looked like he would break if a stronger wind blew, and the Crown Prince was way more muscular, trained by the best of the best.

‘Sure, if you want me to kill him’ pressed onto his lips, but he bit the words back, instead accepting the bow from the boy that was yet to speak.

“He’s still so shy, but he’s smart! He’s great at calculations; he even brought forward a new way of maximizing agricultural output! It’s hard to believe he’s still twelve!” Anastasius ruffled his son’s hair, and through the deeply seeded anger and disgust, the Crown Prince felt… sadness? Longing?   
“Father, please, not in front of Your Excellencies.” The child muttered, his voice surprisingly low for his age. The archduke continued to laugh and handed over his fat suitcase to an awaiting butler, who scurried inside of the castle, another one taking his place.   
“Well, Elliot, your father has a point!” the queen spoke, motioning for her assistant to come closer. She grabbed a small book from her hands, and with a flourish handed it to the young boy, who was nearly pressed into his father’s side at the moment. “Your theory helped the country immensely. I heard that you were a connoisseur of literature; I hope that you will at least accept this tome as my personal thank you.” She smiled, and the Crown Prince frowned. A reward for what? Saying that they should move harvest a week later? Stupid.  
Eliot blinked a couple of times, before carefully plucking the book from the woman’s hands.   
“Thank you, Your Majesty…” he muttered, pressing the book to his chest. Crown Prince glanced at the tome, but unable to see the title he scoffed and looked away. 

If he looked just for a moment longer, he would have noticed Archduke Anastasius’s grin.

Soon, they all moved back inside the castle, the guests lead to their rooms, and the carriage stationed safely in the designated building. Not forced to pretend to be nice anymore, the Crown Prince slumped in his chair, a seat which he took the very second the father-son duo left his field of vision. He was feeling way too exhausted, and the ball didn’t even begin; it wouldn’t start for a couple more hours.   
“Iskra, do you know what book did my mother give to the Squid brat?” he asked, remembering that Iskra’s mother was the queen’s personal assistant. Iskra hummed for a moment, racking her brain for a title, before letting out a small noise in realization.   
“Oh, I do actually know! Mother said that it was _The Art of War_ if I remember correctly.” She said but quickly recoiled when the prince sprang from his chair, leaning to where he thought her eyes would be. He was so close that he could almost make out the shape of her eyes from under the thick veil.  
“Are you sure it that that book?” he asked, his voice colder than the snow that covered the ground outside of the castle. Iskra simply nodded, and the man in front of her kicked the chair he was sitting on. It cluttered down the corridor, and he found himself gasping for air out of anger. “That’s a royal tome! That’s something I was supposed to get! I worked for these tomes for thirteen years, and mother gives one to the Squid brat just for talking about potatoes? I don’t understand!” 

“Your Majesty, you have already read that book, haven’t you? I don’t understand why it would be detrimental to you-“ Iskra started speaking, but the Crown Prince was in her face faster than she could finish her sentence.   
“That’s because it was supposed to be mine. My father had that book, my grandfather had that book, and his father had that book also. It contains things that were taught to all previous kings, and mother gave it to who? To Eliot Squid, whose father is so obvious about wanting to take over the throne it hurts! And who he would put on the throne?” he asked, and Iskra answered, even though she felt her knees shake.  
“Young Master Eliot?”  
“The brat. Yes.”

The hall was silent as the Crown Prince exhaled shakily, trying to calm himself before he would start swinging. The guards who were just supposed to enter the corridor turned on their heels, not wanting to be on the receiving end of Prince’s fury.   
“If I may say something, Your Majesty…” Iskra spoke, regaining her composure. The man glared at her from under his messy hair but waved his hand in a silent signal to continue. Iskra took a deep breath. “Why don’t you inquire with Queen Mother to why she passed on such a precious tome to the Squid House? I’m sure she would explain it to you if you just asked.”  
“As if that would change anything! The book is already in his hands, and even if I asked for it back it would be a massive faux pas towards the archduke… I could always steal it, but if I got caught- Man!” He was now pacing back and forth down the corridor, biting the nail on his thumb. “I think I will have to speak to mother though. I don’t understand why would she give him something that precious to both of us. Do you know my mother’s schedule?”  
Iskra retrieved a small notebook from the hidden pocket of her skirt.  
“If my mother’s notes are correct, Her Majesty the Queen should now be heading for gown fitting for tonight. If you hurry you can catch her in the west wing, and after that, you would probably be able to only meet her during the ball and immediately after it.”  
Before she could even finish speaking, the prince was off, heading towards the west wing. He passed guests who stared at him with wide eyes, seeing him for the first time in their lives, the staff that was making last-minute adjustments to the hall in which the ball would be held, guards who stared at him in pure confusion, before sliding into the West Hall, calling out to his mother who was just turning the corner, about to enter the staircase that led to the Astronomy Tower.   
“Darling! What’s wrong, you look feverish-“ the Queen raised her hand to touch his forehead, but the prince nudged it away, instead staring his mother right in the eyes. “Sweet thing?”  
“Mother, why did you gift _The Art of War_ to Eliot Squid?”  
A large array of emotions ran across the queen’s face in that short moment. From confusion, to shock, through remorse and grief; the prince was experiencing a whole spectacle. His heart began beating faster. He needed an explanation, and he needed it now.  
“My son, I know how much the Royal Library means to you…” the woman began speaking, but the prince was faster, his nerves already in shambles.  
“If you knew how much it meant to me, then why didn’t you consult this with me, mother? Am I still a child so small that I can’t take care of my belongings?” he barked, and the queen frowned.  
“The Library isn’t exclusively yours.”  
“Neither is it yours!”

The queen let out a long, shaky breath, before dismissing his assistant who disappeared into the shadows of the staircase. The prince, heaving in anger, leaned on one of the columns that supported the hall, the light from the stained-glass windows bathing his face in reds and golds of heroes whose stories he could recall by heart. His mother looked at him with adoration for a moment, admiring the man he has become, before speaking, her tone curt and cold.

“Son, you know very well what Archduke Anastasius wants. He wants the crown.” She said, and ice took over the prince’s heart. So it was true. What was his wild speculation was just confirmed, and the thirteen-year-old boy, covered in light, suddenly felt much, much older than he actually was.  
“Yes, that much I have figured. What does it have to do with father’s books?” he spoke before he thought, and the pang of guilt on his mother’s face didn’t escape his keen eyes.  
“He needed to be satiated. The entire country knows of the Royal Library. I thought that If I gift one of the tomes to his son, he would feel like he has achieved something and would stop his attempts, even for a while.” The queen explained calmly, but her son wasn’t having it.  
“Mother, you might have as well handed him the crown itself! You already know he was gathering a battle force, and you, quite literally, gave him the means to lead it! It’s full of knowledge on battle theory, human psyche, strategies- Mother, what have you done?!” he cried out, but his mother’s face remained stone cold, unmoved by his son’s emotional outburst. The prince heaved, having screamed out the last of the air in his lungs. “You could have at least chosen another book. _The Theory of Human Mind_ would have done just as well, why this one! Is this your way of saying you don’t want to rule this country anymore? You’re just handing over your power? I’m - “  
“Shut your mouth, son.” She said, and the young prince suddenly forgot how to breathe. Where was the last time his mother spoke to him in that tone, with these words? He couldn’t recall. It stung his heart, but he straightened his back and looked his mother right in her honey-colored eyes.   
“Explain it to me.” He demanded, and the queen looked at him with so much disappointment that he almost collapsed to the floor where he stood. “Please.” He added.  
For a brief moment, all was silent in the hall. Someone ran by the entrance, not minding the two that stood in the evening sun. The footsteps were almost as loud as the crown prince’s heartbeat.  
“I know that you are attached to the Library. Sometimes we have to give up the things we love for a greater cause, you know? That book was the most important one, yes, but that means that we will gain more time.” She spoke slowly, and the boy’s heart burned in anger and disappointment. “I know it hurts you, but you have to understand, sweet thing; I am doing this for you. I am doing this so you can ascend the throne safely, and so you won’t have to worry about the archduke.”  
“It’s crown this, crown that.” The prince muttered, looking away from his mother’s conflicted face. “Why won’t you consider your son’s feelings and not the ones of the crown prince?”   
“Darling-“  
“I’m sorry mother. I need to have some time to myself. I’ll talk to you during the ball, okay?” he spoke, surprising even himself with how calm he was. Gently taking off his mother’s hand off his shoulder, he gave her a bow and left the hall, not looking back once.   
The corridor felt so cold, and he shuddered when yet another cold draft whipped him across the face. He couldn’t hear his mother’s footsteps anymore, and he brought the cape closer to his body, enveloping himself in the scent of almonds, that now felt thick and choking.  
“Your Majesty?” someone asked, and he only hummed in response. “Would you like me to fix your appearance before the ball?”  
Iskra.  
“Yes, please.”

It was the coldest January in his life.  
***  
“Announcing, The Crown Prince of the Welan Kingdom, His Majesty, Sun of the Plains-“

The sound of his own name was lost in the creak of the heavy door that led to the ballroom. Hundreds of eyes stopped on his figure, and just for a split second, he felt his knees shake. He stood there, at the top of the stairs, for a moment, taking in the sight of many figures looking up at him in wonder and interest, seeing him for the first time in their lives; he could clearly see Archduke Anastasius looking at him through half-lidded eyes from the corner of the room, twirling a glass of alcohol in his hand, his son as always pressed against his side.   
He moved forward slowly, descending the stairs in the most sophisticated way he could possibly manage, enjoying the ovation from the partygoers and the cheers shouted his way. Waving to people he recognized, he made his way down the stairs, through the hall, and finally to the elevated platform on top of which his mother sat on her throne, another, equally royal, prepared next to her, empty, waiting.   
The woman smiled at him gently, though the smile was strained, the remnants of their talk still heavy in the air. He bowed, his eyes meeting the floor, and she placed a gentle hand on his head, saying a quick prayer for his health. The ballroom buzzed with excitement as he brought himself back to standing position, taking a step back as his mother walked to the edge of the platform, facing the guests.  
“Thank you all so much for attending, and deciding to spend this joyous occasion with us. In the name of the crown prince of this kingdom, I would like to offer my deepest gratitude for all the gifts offered to him, and for all the wishes of health and prosperity, as well as- “ the queen chuckled to herself, looking away from the crowd just for a second. “-as well as many engagement propositions, through which I promise I will look after the ball is over.”   
The guests laughed, and the prince felt an embarrassed blush creep up his neck. He didn’t notice the way his mother glanced back and smiled when she saw him in a better mood.  
“Aside from that…” The queen began speaking again, grabbing a tall champagne glass from an awaiting maid. She spun the glass gently, making the transparent, fizzy liquid inside slosh around, and she reached out towards the party. “I hope you enjoy yourselves tonight! Do partake in the drinks and the food, and most of all, dance! There is only one coming of age in a prince’s life, and I’m hoping we can all make the most out of it.” She turned towards her son fully, and she clinked her glass against his, which he, just like the queen, retrieved from a passing attendant. “Happy Birthday, my son.”  
“Thank you, mother.”

The champagne was sweet and sour at the same time, and the prince had a hard time not shuddering after he swallowed it. He wasn’t a fan of alcohol; he could barely stomach wine, and champagne was quickly climbing up the ladder of ones he could not handle. He put down the glass with a small ‘tink’ and he watched the nobles couple themselves up and venture to the dancefloor. Anastasius was still looking at him, now with a small smile rather than the obnoxious grin he held before, and the prince felt something churn in his stomach as their eyes met. They held eye contact for a moment, before Anastasius looked away, asking the closest noblewoman he could locate to dance.   
With a small sense of victory, the prince sat back in his chair, the comfortable material gently supporting his body. His mother, already seated, glanced at him with an amused expression.  
“The youngest daughter of Marquess Leone has been looking at you all night, son.” She whispered in his direction, and the prince followed her eyes. The young girl was indeed peeking at him from behind her richly embroidered fan, covering her entire face with the dark green material when she realized he was returning the gesture. “Fancy asking her for a dance?”   
“Over my dead body, mother. You know how fast gossip spreads; the Leones would skyrocket in social standings within minutes.” He muttered back, making sure that the young girl was no longer making attempts to garner his attention. She was at her mother’s side, telling something to her sisters in a very animated way. The prince could only hope it wasn’t something that included him.  
“How about Duke Winchester’s daughter?”  
“No.”  
“Viscount Eliezer’s granddaughter?”  
“Again, no.”  
“Duke Farhan’s son, then?”  
“Mother!”

The queen laughed, staring at her son’s embarrassed expression. The said son hid his face in his hands, muttering curse words under his breath, quietly enough to not reach his mother’s ears and to mix with the upbeat music. The party continued, the chatter and clinking of glasses and tableware filling the painted walls of the ballroom. Servants scurrying around, nobles gossiping, toasts being raised to the future ruler of Wela; it was just like any other banquet, just with more pomp. The prince wondered where his excitement from that morning went – did it flutter away like a moth to a lamp while his mother told him off in that hall? Or was it the moment when the Squids arrived at his home and took away his property? He tapped a rhythm on the armrests of the throne, and it followed the melody that the violinist played.   
The Queen, having already spoken to most of the nobles, approached her son again, this time with a mischievous expression, unfitting of a woman her status. She bowed in front of him like a court lady would bow to their lord, and with a smile on her face she asked;  
“Your Majesty, Sun of the Kingdom, would you mind sharing a dance with the Lady of the House of Wela? This patient one has been observing you all night, my prince, and you have not enjoyed your birthday so far, so it seems.” She said, and the prince couldn’t help the smile that broke his stony façade.  
“Would the husband of the beautiful Lady of Wela be fine with me stealing his dancing partner for the night? I would not like to become the object of his scorn.” He answered, but he was already on his feet, taking his mother’s hand and bringing it up to his lips for a polite kiss.   
“Lord of Wela trusts you can keep me company, Your Majesty.”  
“A waltz then?”  
“It would be an honor.”

They were in front of the fireplace again, mother and son, spinning and laughing, the argument that bloomed in twilight long forgotten as he held his mother’s delicate hands and devoted himself to the one-two-three rhythm, one that he practiced for so long, just for this one night. The familiar scent of almonds pushed his mind into overdrive as he let out a loud laugh, a rare smile splitting his face. People stared, people talked, people joined in to dance to the same familiar tune, but it didn’t matter, as he was enjoying himself, enjoying the birthday he should have been enjoying since the very beginning.  
“Thank you, mother.” He said as the music reached a heart-racing crescendo, and his mother only nodded, allowing herself to be dipped towards the dancefloor in a flourishing motion. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”  
“All’s forgiven. I also have to apologize for being harsh, I should have known that-“ she spoke, but her tongue tangled up as her eyes unfocused for a moment, the music in the background fading into another tune, one that was faster, more festive. “I’m sorry, sweet thing, I think I need to sit down, my head is spinning.”  
“Oh! Of course, my apologies. Iskra, can you fetch Queen Mother a glass of water?” the prince spoke as he led his mother back to her seat, and his assistant, having emerged from the shadow of the throne hurried towards the many tables with drink and food. The older woman let out a deep sigh as she sunk back into the pillowed surface of the ornate chair, and glanced at her son, who, worry written across his face, sat down on his own throne.   
“I suppose I’m not as young as I used to be.” The queen laughed softly, her eyes scanning the ballroom, stopping at some of the young couples that danced their hearts out. “Just a little bit of spinning makes me weak in the knees.”   
“It’s fine, mother, just rest. Would you like to retire to your chamber earlier? I’m positive that I’ll be able to handle the ball.” Her son asked, grabbing a crystal glass from Iskra’s hands and handing it over to the older woman in front of him. She downed it quickly, but still with poise worthy of her status.  
“Dear, I am still the Queen of this country. I can handle a ball.” She said a quiet thank you to Iskra and passed the glass back into her awaiting hands. “I’m just tired. We both had quite an eventful day, didn’t we?”

Now he really was feeling guilty.   
“Mother-“  
“Shh. Now you should focus on someone else, I think.” The queen said with a smile, her tired eyes already hidden under a well-trained persona. Her son frowned and looked around, cold sweat running down his back when he realized who was looking back at him from the bottom of the platform.   
“You didn’t…”  
“I asked Eva to pass a note to Duke Winchester’s daughter, asking her for a dance. It seems like she’s more than eager to take ‘you’ on that offer, sweet thing.” She grinned and the prince groaned, for a moment forgetting that he is a part of the royal family. “Don’t worry, Winchesters will gain nothing from seeing you two together. They have status and money guaranteed with their bloodline. Go, have fun!” she waved her hand, and reluctantly, his mother’s sickness-stricken face still vivid in his memory, he stood up, turning around just to whisper, his brows furrowed;  
“I’m only doing this because you asked me, mother.”  
“You’re welcome, darling.”

***

The dawn barely broke the cover of the night when the door to the prince’s chamber slammed open, the sudden noise snapping the man out of his peaceful slumber. He instantly reached for the dagger under his pillow, but before he could throw it at the assailant, his vision focused, and he spotted a woman in his doorway, panting heavily while leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t recognize her at first, the black hair and blue eyes completely unfamiliar, but the way she moved told him that it just could be Iskra, dressed in her nightclothes.

“Your Majesty!” she wheezed out, gasping for air, and the prince shot out of his bed, rushing towards the woman. “I’m sorry for showing up indecent but-“  
“Calm down. What’s wrong? Assassins? Is there someone trying to hurt you?” he asked, checking his assistant for injuries. The woman shook her head, attempting to calm her heart enough to speak.  
“Your Majesty, the queen!” Iskra gasped, and the prince felt his blood run cold. “The queen is dying!”

His brain shut down. If he looked back at that night, he probably wouldn’t be able to recall helping Iskra sit down, racing across the castle towards his mother’s chambers, shoving past people crowding in front of her door, and tripping over the carpet as he raced to his mother’s bedside.

He would, however, remember his mother’s tired eyes, which she struggled to keep open, he would remember her shallow breathing and sweat covered face. The priest and the doctor kept saying something about an antidote, about poison, but it went completely over his head as he squeezed his mother’s hand with his own feverish ones, salty tears streaming down his face as he begged her to fight and to hang on. She didn’t speak, she was probably too tired to do so, but her face still looked so gentle, so angelic as she raised her hand and cupped her son’s cheek, brushing away the tears.

She stared at him with love and adoration until all light disappeared from her eyes, and the scent of almonds faded from the air.

***

“It has to be the work of the Ardentian Empire! Retribution for the war thirteen years ago!”  
“Silence, you fool! The peace treaty between the Welan Kingdom and the Ardentian Empire is already thin, how do you think the Emperor will react if he hears about you speaking such nonsense?”  
“Who else would poison the late queen then? Her son?!”  
“Grab your sword you imbecile, I will deliver judgment upon you for saying such nonsense!”  
“Come at me, Viscount!”  
  


“Announcing the king-elect of the Welan Kingdom.”

The room instantly went dead silent, the two warring Viscounts putting away their weapons in a flash and taking their respective spots at the meeting table. As announced, the crown prince, no, the king-elect entered the room, his body poised, but his face so, so tired, looking more like it belonged to an elderly philosopher rather than a boy whose coming-of-age just passed. He was still dressed in the ornate funeral clothes he donned to lay his mother to rest that morning, and it all felt so foreign, so alien on his body – he couldn’t wait to go back to his room and just lay in silence, staring at his ceiling. For now, however, he had to deal with the emergency assembly, one that Archduke Anastasius called in his stead.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He spoke and took his seat at the head of the table.  
“All hail The Sun of The Kingdom!” a cheer ruptured through the hall, around fifty nobles speaking up at the same time to greet their new ruler. Iskra, dressed in all black, took a spot next to her mother, now demoted to head of maids, by the door. She held the king’s sword in her hands, as a symbol of the goodwill of the ruler, and his willingness to communicate and talk things through.

Viscount Eliezer, the one who was just fighting with his seatmate, spoke up first, bowing his head slightly towards the king.  
“Your Majesty, I would like to offer you my most sincere condolences.” He said, and the monarch hummed in response, his face even more crestfallen than before. “I do think, however, that the queen’s death should be the last straw in our relationship with the Ardentian Empire. There is no doubt into my mind that an assassin sent by the emperor was the one who poisoned the late queen.” He said, and the man next to him began to visibly shake. The king looked at him with pity, before waving his hand in his direction.  
“Duke Winchester? You look like you want to say something.”  
The duke stood up, slamming his hands on the table.  
“The idea of Ardentian Empire breaking the peace treaty is preposterous! Our previous king didn’t waste three years of his short life for them to just trample over it like a herd of wild horses!” he shouted, and some of the nobles supported him with their voices. Viscount Eliezer grit his teeth.  
“Like I said! Who else would poison the queen!? Are you implying the culprit is one of the nobles; one of us?”  
  
The room quieted down a bit, and the king-elect hid his face in his hands. He had a stinging feeling about who arranged his mother’s death, but he had no evidence other than a smirk that no one else saw, and the eye contact that would not serve as any tangible proof. Still, Archduke Anastasius sat on the opposite side of the table, and through his rough fingers, the boy could still see him staring daggers at his figure.

“Bah, the nobles couldn’t possibly do such a thing. The queen was a good and gentle person, her son a great crown prince – I’d look at the staff if I were you, Eliezer!” a Duke whose name escaped most of the heads at the table, and the buzz intensified, causing the dull pounding in the king-elect’s head to intensify. His eyes stung, his head was splitting apart and his mouth was dry; this day was going terribly, and with how things were going, it was about to become even worse.  
“As far as I remember-“ Anastasius spoke gently, and all the heads at the table turned towards him, including the boy who glared at him from across the room. “-the late queen has not eaten anything during the ball. She did, however, drink. First, champagne, but many of us drank from the same bottle, so that couldn’t be it. Then, after the king’s dance, she drank a cup of water.” The Archduke looked the young man straight in the eyes, and for a second, he thought he saw hell itself in his brown irises. “The one who brought the glass, and then took it away was His Majesty’s assistant, wasn’t it? That, and she was the one that came to his personal chambers to wake him after the late queen has fallen sick.” Anastasius shook his head in exaggerated disapprovement.

“I don’t like what you’re implying, Archduke Squid.”  
“I’m just stating the facts, Your Majesty. Or will you say that no such thing happened when it was so obviously witnessed by the guests and staff?”

The muttering and humming became louder and louder as some of the nobles reached for their weapons. Iskra gripped the sword she was holding tighter but didn’t move from her spot, fully aware that any of her actions could be taken against the king-elect.  
“None of my attendants, maids, butlers, or any of the castle staff had any ill wish against the royal family, so I’d watch my tongue if I were you, Archduke.” The king spoke and the tension lowered a bit. Not enough for Anastasius Squid to stop talking completely, though.

“There is one more thing, Your Majesty, that I would like to discuss.” He said, and the king felt his blood pressure rise even higher than it already was. “If you would grant me permission to speak, of course.”  
“I’m unsure if I want to speak with someone who questions the allegiance of my staff.” The boy said, and the temperature in the chamber dropped by at least ten degrees. “Say what you need. I don’t want to interact with you longer than I have to.”  
  
Archduke Anastasius Squid smiled.  
  
“Your Majesty, me, as well as most of the nobility of Wela gathered in this room, think that the best course of action after a successful assassination would be for Your Majesty to retire to the summer palace for some time, while we solve this situation, and smoke out the traitors in our midst.”  
Hums of agreement echoed in the room. The king himself wasn’t amused.  
“Really. The queen has just passed and you are taking the only remaining royal family member away from the castle. That’s rich.” He snarled, forgetting his poise and rank. Anastasius shook his head.  
“That’s exactly why we want you to leave for a while, Your Majesty! The assassin must still be in or near the castle, and as the remaining member of the House of Wela, you must practice utmost caution.”  
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Archduke, but I am still the king of Wela, and I will be the one making such decisions.” The boy slammed his hands on the table, making the water in the crystal pitcher slosh around dangerously close to the rim. “Now, does anyone want to discuss anything else-”  
“King-elect of Wela. _I_ hate to be the one to tell you this-” Anastasius cut into the speech like a sword slicing flesh. “-but you haven’t been crowned yet, thus the rule falls to us, the Lobby of the Elders.”

He forgot how to speak for a moment, and so did many of the people on both sides of the gathering. Many of them looked from Anastasius to him, looking for an explanation, and for many something just clicked, and they just nodded, looking at him with scorn.  
What the archduke was saying was true – even though his mother passed just the day before yesterday, his coronation couldn’t be scheduled for any time before next month; with many holidays and traditions in the way, he was just a crown prince waiting like a sitting duck to be _allowed_ to ascend the throne. Usually, the parent of the crown prince would hold the power while the prince prepared for his coronation; in this case, however, there was no such figure, and the law stated, that in absence of a crowned ruler, the Lobby of the Elders, a gathering of highest ranked officials and nobility would take over that role. The young boy had a terrible, slimy feeling about what was about to happen.

“We figure that leaving as soon as possible will guarantee you the most safety and comfort possible. We have already contacted the best of sell-swords to be your bodyguards, as sending the royal guard with you could garner the attention of the assassin.” Anastasius was speaking without filter, a dangerous grin dancing on his face, completely ignored by the gathering. “Tomorrow at dawn, Your Majesty will depart from the castle, and you should arrive at the summer palace before sunset if the party will keep a decent pace. No servants, no luggage needs to be taken from the palace – everything Your Majesty could need will already be waiting at the estate.”  
“Do you think I will just say yes to all of this? It smells of a trap.”  
“You wound me, Your Majesty. How could you accuse me so after I went through all the trouble of preparing this journey for you? You will rest within the chill walls of the summer palace, and we will take care of everything, from the assassin to the coronation. You only need to focus on coming back in glory.”

It was a trap. It was so obviously a trap, and yet there was nothing he could do to not step into it. A hundred eyes stared right through him as he glared at Archduke Anastasius, who was now playing with his glass of water, almost as if he was taunting him with the way his mother passed. He felt his nails dig into the wood. There will be an entire night to think about how to get out of this situation. For now, it was better not to antagonize the rest of the un-lobbied nobility.

“Fine.” He said, and the widest smile the boy has ever seen split Anastasius’ face. “Iskra, go and pack our bags.”  
“ _Your_ bags, Your Majesty. I thought I mentioned that you need not take any servants with you.”  
  
The king-elect grit his teeth so hard that for a second he thought his gums popped.

“Pack _my_ bags, then.”

***

“I’m counting on you, good sir. You’ll receive the rest of the payment once His Majesty reaches the summer palace.”  
A jingle of coins within a leather pouch and a solid, firm handshake. His fate was sealed. The king-elect gripped the reins of his horse tight enough for them to cut off the circulation in his hands. Nothing came from the sleepless night during which he thought relentlessly about a way to get out of this, most likely, one-way trip; he was still woken up before dawn, basically forced out of his chambers and to the courtyard without even getting a say in the case. Before he could say a prayer, he was already on his horse, his luggage loaded onto the simple cart – he was starting to get nervous. It was a miracle that they didn’t take away the ornamental sword that was clipped to his belt; there was at least that he could protect himself with if the worse comes to worst.

Augustus approached the horse with a swagger in his step, Iskra following close behind, acting almost as if she was trying to stay out of Archduke’s reach.  
“Your Majesty, I wish you safe travels.” He said, and the young man, now even taller than the archduke since he was on a horse, rolled his eyes. “The men guarding you today are from the Sunrise Company, they are all trustworthy, and if anything, and I mean anything feels odd to you, you can talk to the man with the golden hair; he’s the guide.”  
“Sure. Do you have anything else to say, Archduke?” he asked coldly, and the duke only smiled in response, stepping to the side, allowing the assistant to approach the horse, the woman having to crane her head up to look at her liege. She extended her hands, handing him a small bundle wrapped in a white, embroidered handkerchief. It clinked as he grabbed it from her expecting hands; potions? Something else? He double-checked if Anastasius was watching before he delicately lifted one of the corners of the cloth to see what’s inside. A health potion, an invisibility potion and something that didn’t quite had the shape of the usual flask in which the potions were stored; he opened up a little bit more of the handkerchief just to instantly press it back, his face pale.

It was an Ender Pearl, something that was expensive and precious, reserved to noble families and the royal court because of the danger that came from harvesting it. Even though he was the king-elect, the young man has only seen them with his own eyes a couple of times, most of them being during his classes and in the castle armory. He glanced at Iskra, his face both surprised and terrified of what did his attendant had to do to obtain it. Unable to answer his silent questions, the veiled woman only bowed, and with a quiet _‘stay safe, Your Majesty_ ’ she scurried back into the shade of the palace, joining the rest of the attending staff. He wanted to ask questions, but instead, he stuffed the items into the inner pocket of his clothes, praying that none of the sellswords or even worse, Anastasius didn’t see the glint of the bottles. Now left with only the handkerchief, he quickly tied it to his belt before the leader of the Sunrise Company yelled loudly, signaling the party to move onwards.

With a kick to his horse’s sides, the king-elect left his home, not looking back once. There was no one to look back at anymore; something squeezed at his heart as the trees began to grow thicker and closer to each other. He wanted his mother to tell him that it’s going to be all right – was he afraid? Alone in the world, among people he didn’t know. Was it his fate to be the last king from the House of Wela? His head was beginning to hurt again, and he caught himself sweating just a little bit too much. The blonde guide decreased his speed to match the young royal, and he looked at him with concern. Their eyes met for a moment, and, if God existed, the king-elect prayed that the man next to him didn’t feel the blinding, raw fear that emanated from his body.

He was a caught prey, heading for his execution.

The sun was reaching its summit when the company reached a clearing in the forest, and the leader hailed his horse, calling for a break. Everyone was laughing and chatting among themselves, dismounting their horses and sharing supplies; the young king’s pocket felt heavy as he carefully climbed down his steed, attempting not to make noise by clinking the bottles against each other. He stood awkwardly next to the horse, watching everyone, his hand fiddling with the handkerchief at his side anxiously.

The company kept glancing at him in-between words, and something in his gut, something that never failed him before, screamed and tore at his insides, telling him that he’s in danger and that he should do something quickly, lest he will find his final resting place right there, under the thousand-years-old trees. His fingers wrapped around the round shape of the ender pearl, but before he could throw it, someone gently tapped him on the shoulder.  
“Hey young man. Are you feeling all right? You’re pale.” The blonde guide who rode alongside him during the journey was now standing behind him, leaning on the horse. His entire body was covered by a brown cape, just the tips of his unruly, blonde hair sticking out from under the simple hood. The king-elect didn’t speak, deciding to instead take a step away from the guide, eyeing him suspiciously. “Oh, I see. Fair, fair, I wouldn’t trust anyone if I was in your situation either.”

The man dug in his pouch for a moment, and the royal braced himself for an attack. Instead of a slash to the chest, however, he blinked in confusion when the guide extended his hand to him, holding an apple in his grasp.  
“Lunch. Dig in, Young Majesty.” He waved the apple around for a moment, not minding the suspicious glare the boy was shooting him. “Do you want me to take a bite out of it first? It’s a pretty small apple though.”  
“No need. Thank you.”  
“No problem. Eat up.”

The moment that the apple reached his lips, he heard something else, however.  
“Cover your lips with the apple so they can’t read them.” The guide muttered, and his blood ran cold as he glanced at the man who offered him food. “And don’t look at me. Focus on something in front of you.”

The company was bustling around; eating, sparring, cleaning their weapons – it wasn’t hard for the boy to focus on something inconspicuous. It was silent for a moment before the guide spoke up again.  
“They are going to kill you the moment the rest ends.”  
  
Well, this was as much as he expected, but he still couldn’t help the beads of sweat that stained the back of his white shirt. The glint of the freshly polished weapons suddenly made a lot of sense.  
“Did Archduke Anastasius paid you all off?”  
“Most of us, yes. Some of us are… freelancers that just tagged along.”  
“And you’re one of these freelancers?”  
“Exactly.”  
“So you’re also going to attack me.”  
“Not really, no.”

The boy furrowed his eyebrows, swallowing a piece of the apple that he was chewing on. He averted his eyes from one of the sellswords who gave him a weird look after he stared at his shoes for way too long. The guide handed him another apple, and he accepted it without a word. He stayed silent for a moment, battling with his thoughts, evaluating his chances of survival. Twenty – no, nineteen armed men, if he was to believe the guide, versus his ornamental sword, ender pearl, and two potions. Even though he did train for most of his life, these men were, unfortunately, bulkier and much more experienced in real-life combat than him. If he didn’t do anything, this would be the place of his demise.  
  
“Guide? What’s your name?”  
“Philza Soot. Call me Phil though, my full name’s a mouthful.”  
“All right, Phil. You said you wouldn’t attack me; would you be willing to help me?”  
  
The guide hummed from behind his apple, his surprisingly long fingernails playing with the red skin. This was it. This was the do or die.

“Yes, sure. I’ll try to help you. Do you have any sort of a plan, or are we winging it?”  
“I have an ender pearl. If you could just distract them, I could run into the forest.”  
  
Phil choked on the apple, and it took him a good second to get his breathing back in order. He looked completely baffled at the mention of the artifact, and even though his face was almost completely obstructed from view, the boy swore he could see a pair of wide, shocked, blue eyes peeking from underneath the simple hood.

“Well, this changes the situation completely, Young Majesty. Head west, and don’t turn around. I’ll catch up.”  
“Thank you, Phil.”  
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if a child died here. Brace yourself. This is the signal.”

A sharp whistle rang in the air, and all sound in the clearing instantly ceased. Phil exhaled gently, and threw the core of the apple he ate behind himself, his other hand fiddling with the button of his cape. The boy’s hand clenched around the ender pearl in his pocket, and he hoped it wouldn’t slip from his grasp.  
“Terribly sorry about this, Your Majesty.” One of the sellswords spoke as he grabbed an arrow from his quiver. “Business is business.”

“Hold,” Philza muttered, the cape now loose on his shoulders. The boy looked at him, and for a second, he swore that the material over his back bunched up in the strangest way he has ever seen. “Take one step back.”  
The boy obeyed, and the men that surrounded him laughed, amused at the fear in the boy’s eyes. A sound of swords being drawn from their sheaths was as loud as thunder, the only louder sound in the area being the thumping of the king-elect’s blood in his ears. They stayed in equilibrium for a moment, flexing their muscles like predators about to jump their prey, before one of the swordsmen took a bolder step forward.  
“Go!” Phil shouted before the cape fell from his back, exposing a pair of large, black wings. The boy bit back the urge to gawk at them, instead turning his back towards the crowd and chucking the pearl he yanked out of his pocket as far as he could west. At the same time, Philza beat his wings a couple of times, bringing up sand and dirt in the air, attempting to obstruct the Sunrise Company’s vision. As promised, the boy didn’t look back, booking it in the direction of the pearl.

For a second, he felt weightless. His brain short-circuited and his vision went white – he felt like he was drowning, he felt like he was flying, he felt like he was everything and nothing; the feeble contents of his stomach flipped around and he choked on his tongue for a moment. Who was he in that second? He felt like a god.  
He blinked and he was in another clearing. His body tumbled down a grassy ravine, and he groaned as a rock dug into his side; he hoped the potions were safe, he didn’t feel glass digging into his skin yet, so there was hope.  
It took him a second to get to his feet, his head still spinning; which side was west, and which side was east? He could hear swords clanking in the distance – his survival instinct told him to sprint in the opposite direction.  
  
“What are you doing away from camp?” he heard, and his heart jumped to his throat as his head whipped around, facing a very confused member of the Sunrise Company. He cursed under his breath; did he not notice someone leaving camp to patrol? The boy grabbed at his sword, and the sellsword instantly switched into an attack position. He could take him; it was a one on one battle, and he fought with guards bigger than the swordsman in front of him. Still, his head was spinning, and he was feeling extremely nauseous; not to mention, his grip on the ornamental sword was getting very clammy, and fast. The man in front of him glanced towards the noise, and with a grimace glared at the king-elect.  
“I’ve no idea what happened back there, but I can’t let you go any further, Your Majesty.” He growled, and just like that, he was off, the sword pointed right at the boy’s throat. His body answered before his mind did, raising the sword into a defensive position, deflecting the blade to his right, bringing his foot down, and curving himself to the left, aiming for a low cut to the assailant’s stomach. He could already feel the blade enter the swordsman’s flesh, he could already smell the spray of blood, and the serotonin rushed to his head, clearing his consciousness for a split second, just enough for him to dodge the back of the sword that was almost brought down onto the back of his head. The low blow forgotten, the boy stepped back to recalculate, hoping to look for an opening.

Then, the blade came down.

From the hilt position, the assailant spun the sword around, and brought it down right onto the boy’s face, slashing perfectly down the left side of his face.

For a split second, the king-elect felt… surprised? He has never experienced such an intense feeling before; the swords he trained with were duller, never sharp enough to cut flesh, the bruises he gained were instantly healed, and the hits he took never hard enough to scar over his skin. Now, the place where the sword landed stung. Throbbed. Tore his face apart. It hurt.

It hurt.

The swordsman brought his body back for a final hit that would end the boy’s life; he took his time adjusting his position as the child in front of him grabbed at his leaking eye and cried out curses and threats. Then their gazes met. Anger met rage, and the swordsman realized, with a start that he had no idea where the other hand of the crying child was, nor where the sword was located.  
The sword found him first, jammed into the man’s thigh, and dragged down, slicing his thigh open. Using the newfound distraction, the child scurried back, out of the swordsman’s reach. His face was bleeding profoundly and he couldn’t move his eye; he was pretty sure it was lost. Still, the health potion tucked away against his skin gave him hope, and as he looked at his opponent who was now pressing onto his shredded thigh with his hand, his blade loose in his other hand. The child could end him. Through the blood streaming down his face, he snarled as he readjusted his grip on the sword. Just like he was taught, through the neck. The muscles in his legs tensed and he let out a long breath, attempting to channel the pain into his momentum. Their gazes locked again, fury and desperation.

And then he was flying.

His feet left the ground, and the swordsman in front of him did a double-take in confusion as the child soared into the sky, seemingly ascending towards the sky without any support. He was too shocked to move, and for a moment he just stared down at the bloodied man on the ground, the blood on his face falling down like red rain. Only when the clearing disappeared from his obstructed view, did he realize that someone or something was holding him under his arms leaving his body dangling several feet over the trees, the pain in his face now mixing with fear.  
“What-“  
“Stop kicking, Young Majesty! It’s me, Phil! Calm down!”  
  
The source of light flickered over him, and suddenly he was in the shade, a large body covering his own. He glanced up, and the faintest of smiles danced on his face as he spotted a pair of large, black wings spread wide open, covering the harsh sunlight. The boy craned his head up, facing Phil who was now scanning the ground in front of them, navigating the wind. He looked down for a moment, wincing when he noticed the nasty gash on the boy’s face.  
“I helped myself to your invisibility potion, I hope you can forgive me.” He sighed, turning his head back to the front. “The other vial got completely obliterated, I hope it wasn’t anything expensive, because I won’t be able to pay you back for it.”  
  
What?  
  
The boy patted his shirt, searching for the potion that he felt before. He fished it out, only for his face to fall when he realized it was an empty container, clear and pristine. Phil swapped his things when he wasn’t looking.  
He suddenly felt very weak, the blood loss catching up to his body. Phil shook him gently, keeping him awake, but he was drifting away, the adrenaline leaving his body all at once.  
“Hey, young man! Speak to me, don’t fall asleep-“  
“Sorry…”  
“What’s your name?”  
  
The boy frowned in confusion.  
“You already know it… Why ask?”  
“No, no, I mean- What do you want me to call you? I can’t possibly call you _Your Majesty_ all the time, and I don’t think that you’ll be going back to the castle any time soon, so…”  
The boy’s mind was already racing when Phil asked him that. The final thread, one that was holding him connected to the House of Wela, was frayed, thin, and on the verge of breaking. He would be proclaimed dead when the sellswords arrive at the summer palace, claiming to be jumped by a wild animal or a band of bandits. Anastasius would take over the government, and he would either push to be the new king or change the way of ruling completely. And him? An empty coffin will be buried next to his mother, and he will be forgotten to history, just another foolish king trapped within the pages of ages-old chronicles.

The crown prince died at his mother’s bedside.  
The king-elect died in that clearing.

By this point, he was only an artificed blade, created from his sheer will of survival and desperate grasping at every possibility.

 _Techna. Cunning trick, artifice; he_ _remembered trying to learn Latin to make his mother proud. He had to stop when other studies came into play, but he liked annoying his mother by throwing Latin words into everyday conversations._

His heart clenched.

“Technoblade. My name is Technoblade.” He whispered, and his body went limp. Phil switched the grip he had on the small boy, hooking a hand under his knees, holding him closer to his body.  
“It’s nice to meet you, Technoblade.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You have no idea how many OCs did I have to write for this to work.  
> Also in usual fanfiction, this would be split into at least two chapters - In AMA land though? Ya'll get the fine dining full course meal.  
> ...honestly, I pulled so much shit out of my ass here I'm surprised I'm still alive.


	2. Misericordia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> start anew  
> our lives are so different  
> you don't have to be alone

“Will! Will, heat up some water!”

The soft tune of an expertly tuned guitar faded into the background, as Wilbur Soot snapped his head up from the piece of paper he has placed on the floor in front of him. He expected to have the house to himself for at least twelve more hours, thus he hasn’t even touched the chores he was asked to do. Still, his father just barged through the door, covered in sweat and blood that Wilbur prayed wasn’t his; maybe the chores weren’t a priority right now.

“Dad, what happened?” he asked, setting the guitar to the side, his eyes already on the water bucket in the corner of the room. Only then did he notice the bloody bundle in his arms, which let out shallow breaths, wrapped in Phil’s dark coat. “What- Who’s that?”  
“I’ll tell you later. Please heat up that water, and fetch me the first aid kit. Hurry.”  
Philza’s voice was curt and cold, yet stricken with worry, and the boy instantly understood that this was not the time for questions.

He hurried around the small kitchen, working the stove and the shelves while his father set the bundle down gently on the table. Will couldn’t help but steal a glance as he ran past the table to the spot in which Phil hid the first aid kit, and his eyes widened at the sight of a boy, his face covered in sweat, blood, and vomit, the dark substance caking over his pretty, cotton candy pink hair. What happened during Phil’s trip? Will’s fingers clenched around the box as he ran back to the kitchen. He hoped his dad wasn’t as hurt as the boy.

“Thank you, Will.” The older man exhaled shakily and began digging through the kit for rubbing alcohol and sutures, in case the wound was too deep to handle with just bandages. His son nodded, and turned off the stove, so the water wouldn’t be too hot. He was back with a bowl and a clean rag within moments, and then he just stood to the side, watching his father gently clean the boy’s face, the water in the bowl quickly turning crimson. When most of the dried blood was gone, Wilbur could finally see the real extent of the wound the boy laying unconscious on his kitchen table sustained. A deep, clean gash ran from his forehead down to his jaw bone, splitting his eyelids in half, and, what Will could only assume by that point, blinding him in that one eye. Aside from that, his face was scratched up, and his pants were torn at the knees, the material itself stained with green. The once white shirt was now dyed red, but it was in good shape – the boy wasn’t wounded anywhere on his torso.

Deciding to be useful, Wilbur grabbed his own cloth and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and, having climbed on the table, began disinfecting and cleaning the boy’s knees. Phil smiled gently, having raised his eyes from Techno’s face when he felt the table shake.

His son was a good kid.

They both worked late into the night, and when Phil placed the final bandage over Techno’s face, the moon was already well on its way to set beyond the horizon. Still, it was too late to sleep, and Phil fixed himself and his son a cup of tea, having set Techno to sleep in his bed.

“Can you tell me what happened?” Wilbur asked, having wrapped his fingers around the warm porcelain. “Or is it something that would put me in danger?”  
His father smiled, even though his eyes were tired and sullen.  
“You’re such a smart kid, Will.” He sighed, taking a sip of the golden drink. “His name is Technoblade-”  
“That’s a weird name.”  
“Well, your name means ‘wild boar’ so I don’t think you should be the one to judge.”

Wilbur laughed, bringing the cup to his lips. Phil took this as an opportunity to continue his story.

“He is- Well he was a son of an… influential noble. He was sent to stay in safety while his house was in chaos, when his mother was assassinated, and, well, I was hired to protect him on the way, along with some other guys.” Phil, looked out of the window, his expression serene, but sad. “The thing is, Will, Techno’s other…relative, he paid us all to kill Techno on the way to his other estate.”  
“That’s horrible!” Will shouted, some of his tea spilling over the table. He was aware that his father wasn’t telling him the entire truth, but he knew, he was always taught that if Phil wasn’t telling him something, it was for his own good. Thus, he didn’t ask.  
“Yeah, I thought the same thing. That’s why I decided to help him get away but- Well-” Phil motioned in the vague direction of his bed. “-I couldn’t exactly keep him completely safe. I left him for a moment, to take care of the rest of the mercenaries, and he got in a skirmish with a straggler.”  
  


They stayed silent for a while, both sipping their teas. Wilbur looked over his father carefully. He was moving normally, without any discomfort; the blood on his clothes gathered around his chest was definitely Techno’s. Still, he frowned when Phil’s hand twitched just the slightest bit when he grabbed the teacup, a frown appearing on his face and disappearing just as fast.

“Dad, are you hurt?” he asked, and Phil raised his eyebrows.  
“No, not really. The blood is Techno’s-”  
“Can I see your right hand then?” Wilbur was already walking around the table when he said that, and, with a defeated sigh, his father extended his right hand towards him, exposing a thin gash on the inside of his palm. Seeing Will’s questioning eyes, he smiled, and with a cheeky grin boasted;  
“Caught a sword with my hand!”  
  
Wilbur wasn’t amused.  
Within moments, the first aid kit was back on the table, and Phil’s hand was being worked on; water, rubbing alcohol, ointment, gauze, bandage. It was odd watching Wilbur, a nearly twelve-year-old boy, do these tasks with such ability, one that could only be acquired by practice – still, it spoke volumes about the type of life Phil and Wilbur led. A mercenary and his son, relying on each other to survive.

“What’s going to happen to Techno?” Wilbur broke the silence, tying a final knot on the neat bandage. Phil hummed in response, clenching and unclenching his hand to make sure he had enough mobility.  
“Well, I’m not letting him out of my sight until he’s back in working order, that much is obvious.” He said and ruffled his son’s head, the boy smiling widely at his father’s touch. “I hope you’ll be able to help me out with that. We’ll think about the future when he gets better.”  
Will only nodded, climbing into his father’s lap and settling in. It wasn’t rare for them to share moments like these when Phil comes back from his many jobs, bruised and tired, but that night it felt special. It felt like something was just starting, and even though his father smelled pretty bad, the warmth that emanated from his chest made Will’s eyelids heavy. Phil laughed to himself quietly, bringing his son closer to himself, getting comfortable in the chair. He stroked his hair, the brown curls soft to the touch.

They were one, father and son.

Son.

_Son._

_Son._

Technoblade was afraid. There weren’t many things that could scare him; he wasn’t afraid of darkness nor wild animals, the outdoors was his calling and public speaking, though unliked, was still a trait he studied enough to handle.  
He was, however, scared of dreams.

The thought process behind that was simple, really; it was something he couldn’t control, thus it could always turn against him, and turn against him it did, plaguing him with nightmares and visions of calamity. That night, one such thought hung low over his face as he slept in Philza’s bed.

He dreamt of the castle, the halls quiet and cold. There was no one around, no staff to greet him, no guards to salute, not even Iskra chattering on and on about his daily schedule. He paced the halls alone, and his steps echoed across the entirety of Wela, each clack of his heels coming back to him louder and louder, until it felt like thunder was splitting his ears. He broke into a stride, then a run, then a sprint. The familiar windows, statues, paintings whizzed by his head as he ran away from the noise, kicking up dust that should have no right to gather that fast. The statues cracked and fell apart as he passed them, and he felt his heart hammer in his chest, filling him with dread and a foreboding, disgusting feeling.

Techno hated seeing his home fall apart; thirteen years spent in these cold walls made him attached to the musky scent of the ages-old stone, and he averted his eyes as cracks thundered and covered the castle with scars, threatening to tumble on top of him in minutes, if not seconds. What was he even doing back here? He was just almost assassinated, and then Phil-

He stopped in his tracks, his breath heavy. He was in front of the door to his mother’s room. The door was closed, untouched in the chaos that surrounded it, and Techno found himself reaching for the handle. It felt hot against his palm, and it burned his skin, splitting the flesh and bone. Still, he pulled the door open, and sure enough, his mother sat in her chair, smiling gently right at him, as If she knew he would walk in.

“Mother-” Techno muttered, and his mother opened her arms, lovingly saying his real name. The handle burned his hand, and his skin caught on fire, but he stared and stared, his lip quivering, his heart pounding so loud that it almost canceled out the thundering of the crumbling walls.

He took a step forward, leaving skin on the handle, his mother laughed, and the castle fell apart.

He woke up with a start, covered in sweat. Within seconds, he was sitting up, grabbing at various parts of his body to make sure he was alive and not crushed under the debris. He was fine. He was alive.

Techno let out a shaky breath, attempting to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, stopping when his skin met bandage. He poked at it a bit, figuring out how much of his face did it cover. Forehead, eye, cheek, chin, looping behind his ear; it pulsated with dull pain, not enough to be unbearable, but just enough to be noticeable.

He remembered the noon on the clearing very well, the feeling of a sharp blade slicing through his skin and flesh forever etched in his memory. His knees were stinging as well, and he raised his eyebrows at a neat bandage wrapped over each of them. Techno didn’t even remember scraping them – adrenaline?

After affirming he was, in fact, alive, and not bleeding out as sat there surrounded by soft, sweet-smelling bedsheets, he finally had time to look around. He was inside a neat, clean home – Phil’s home, his mind told him, it had the same exact feel as, him, but the blonde man wasn’t anywhere in sight, thus he couldn’t be sure yet – that was located somewhere within a forest, as suggested by the trees peeking out from behind the window, as if they were checking in on him, asking if he was okay. It was the middle of the day; either he slept for less than an hour or twenty-four of them. Neither of these choices made Techno feel better about intruding on Phil’s privacy, and he swung his legs over the bedframe, wincing as his knees pounded with pain when moved. Still, he pushed off the bed, taking a moment to regain his balance; it was the first time in his life he was navigating around with only one eye, after all.

The house was quiet, and it made the non-existent contents of Techno’s stomach flip. It reminded him a little bit too much of the dream he just had, and exhaled louder, just to hear some sort of sound. The bedroom was connected to a short corridor, two simple doorways on the opposite side from the one he emerged from, the hall opening to a bright room, from which a sweet scent of honey wafted into Techno’s nose, making his stomach rumble. Disgruntled, he realized that since he left the castle who knows how long ago, he has only eaten two apples, both of which didn’t exactly settle well into his stomach.

He wondered about what to do for a moment. He already bothered Phil enough by having him help out in his escape, and putting him in danger; should he just leave? He didn’t exactly know where he was, but they couldn’t be far from the Welan border, considering that Phil was hired by the mercenaries from the country. Returning to the palace wasn’t an option, not with Anastasius and Lobby of The Elders against him. He could always seek asylum in the Empire, but that was very risky, and he would have to cross the entire Wela to get there-

“Technoblade?” a soft voice broke him out of his thoughts, and he snapped his head up, searching for the source of it. A head popped from the bright room at the end of the corridor, topped with wavy brown hair – It was a boy, his age, or maybe even younger. “Technoblade, right? That’s your name?” he called out again, and Techno nodded, taking a step closer towards the boy, who has now fully moved into the doorway.  
“Yes. Who are _you_?” A question for a question. The boy stepped back, heading back into the room. Not knowing what else to do, Techno followed, glancing around the house as he walked.

The room in question looked like a combination of a kitchen and a lounging room. In the northern corner stood a stove, along with shelves containing cutlery, plates, pots, and all technical equipment necessary to prepare food. Two teacups laid in the sink, ready to be washed, and the pan on the stove sizzled, it’s content unknown from the spot Techno was standing in. Surprisingly close to the utilities stood a couch, worn out and stained in places, but still homely, with many blankets thrown haphazardly over the sitting area, alongside seemingly hand-embroidered pillows (embroidered sloppily, yes, but it was the thought that counted, and Techno appreciated art). A large window rested within the wall behind the couch, and the gentle light that broke through the thick forest bathed the room in warm light, casting shadows on the real centerpiece of the room; the table.

It was a surprisingly large, birch wood structure with four chairs placed around it, some of them more worn than others. It would be a cute piece of furniture, had it not smelled relatively strongly of alcohol when you came closer to it – has it been disinfected? It must have seen a lot of things to be treated like that.

The boy pointed towards the table with his chin, and Techno took the hint, taking a seat at the table, choosing the chair that would put his back to the window.  
“Wilbur. My name is Wilbur Soot.” The boy finally spoke, heading towards the stove, his hand already working the spatula. Techno blinked once, then twice.  
“So you’re Philza’s son?” he asked, already realizing the answer when comparing Wilbur’s kind eyes to his, a bit foggy, memory of the man who helped him survive. Wilbur smiled, dumping the content of the pan onto the dish, the mystery turning out to be a golden-brown, thick piece of toast.

“That’s right. Do you drink tea or coffee?” his hand hovered over the tins on the counter, the other one reaching up to grab a clean mug from the shelf.  
“I don’t really have a preference.”  
“Tea it is then. Coffee’s expensive.”

The sweet, overwhelmingly homely smell of honey mixed with a delicate bouquet of chamomile, lavender and rose; Techno was ashamed to admit it, but it made his stomach roar even louder, to the point he could swear Wilbur broke into a grin while pouring the boiling water into the mug. The boy set the cup in front of Techno with a smile, alongside a plate on which the toast from earlier sat proudly, covered in cinnamon butter and honey. Techno glanced from the meal on the table to Wilbur.  
“Is… Is this for me?” he asked, deciding to instead take a sip of the tea, knowing that it was, in fact, made for him. Wilbur took a seat on the other side of the table, nodding his head.

Techno looked at the meal in front of him. It was a piece of bread, yes, but it was soaking with butter, cinnamon, and honey – there was no way for him to grab it without making a mess. He pressed his mouth into a thin line, feeling awkward under Wilbur’s curious gaze; his social anxiety was acting up, Will was judging him.  
“Do you want cutlery?” the boy sitting in front of him asked, raising his eyebrows at the awkward finger wiggling from the guest.  
“…please.”

The toast was crunchy and soft at the same time; the butter melting on Techno’s tongue as he took the first bite of the extremely late breakfast. It was delightful; the warm meal filled his stomach, and the tea cleaned his palate, allowing him to enjoy the delicate taste of honey and cinnamon anew each time. Something crawled up his throat as he chewed each piece thoroughly, as if to memorize every note of the meal and he found himself looking away from Wilbur who was watching him with interest, a satisfied smile on his face.

‘‘Would you like seconds?’’  
‘‘…yes.’’  
“You’re not very talkative, aren’t you?”  
“Sorry.”

Wilbur did not push the topic further, instead going back to the stove and cutting another thick slice off the loaf of bread. Techno stared at the empty plate before him, battling with his thoughts. He really should leave, he knew that. In his current situation, no matter how far away from the capital he was – how far away from Wela he was, he was not safe for as long as he was alive. He was aware that the mercenaries most likely spun a tale of being attacked by wild beasts or bandits and losing his body while running away, but Anastasius was smart, and until he saw his corpse, he would not be satisfied.

Wilbur placed the plate in front of him, filled once again, the toast now joined by some apples, cut up in neat cubes and lightly browned on the frying pan. It took Techno, lost in his thoughts, a good moment to realize that the food was there, but when he did, he dug in immediately, the second helping being as good, if not better, than the first meal Wilbur fixed up for him. Something tugged at his heart as he ate, and just for a moment – just for a second – he thought he smelled almonds again.

“You seem around my age.” Wilbur mused, seeing as Techno was almost done with his meal. At first, the boy did not want to bother talking to someone who he will eventually have to leave behind, but the kid did just serve him breakfast, and the dad of the said kid did save his life; thus, he decided to oblige.

Just for a moment.

“I just turned thirteen.” He said, and Wilbur’s eyebrows shot towards the sky. “My birthday was… six days ago, I think.”  
“Oh! Happy birthday then, even though I’m late…” he laughed, leaning on the table with heightened interest. “You’re older than me! My birthday is in spring though, so… by one year? I’ll be twelve very soon.”  
“One year then,” Techno spoke, finishing up his food. Wilbur smiled, his mood raised by the fact that the boy his dad brought home decided to talk to him – he did not have many friends, aside from the kids of traders and villagers who swung by Phil’s cabin from time to time, and the children he saw once or twice a month when they came out to the market, so talking to someone completely new, one that was almost his age, was euphoric.

He jumped up to grab the plate from Techno and with a hum in his voice he cleaned it up, the warm water splashing around as he did the chore with a pep in his step. Techno just said at the table, awkwardly, glancing at the door from time to time, wondering about the best time to leave. Suddenly, Wilbur spoke again.  
“What’s your favorite color?” he asked, and Techno frowned, a ghost of a laugh on his lips.  
“That’s an odd question.” He mused, leaning on the table in front of him. “Why do you want to know that?” he added after a moment, seeing as Wilbur was still awaiting an answer. The boy was now full out humming, enjoying the simple process of washing the dishes as a kid would enjoy playing ball or hide-and-seek.  
“No reason! I just want to know you better, I guess?” Will placed the plate on the drying rack, and wiped his hands, covered in bubbles, into a clean rag that was placed neatly on one of the cupboards. “Dad said that you’ll be staying here until you get better, so I don’t want to tip-toe around you.”

_What?_

There was something forming in Techno’s stomach, and he did not like it – it was so different than the warm meal in his stomach and the soft scent in his nose; it stung and tore at his throat. He didn’t understand Phil’s motives. He was just a palace rat, a fugitive who could only bring trouble to people, and the man not only opened his arms to protect him, but also opened his home to shelter him. He did not want to mistrust him, he did not give him the reason to, yet. Still, in a world in which people can easily take away thirteen years of hard work just by making a suggestion, it was ridiculously hard to believe that Will’s father did this “just because”.

_He had to leave. He had to leave right at that moment, before Philza would become just another traitor to his trust._

“So, what is it Techno? Oh, can I call you Techno? Your full name makes my tongue confused.” Wilbur laughed as he turned around, his eyes widening as he saw Techno sliding off the chair and heading towards the door. “-where are you going?”

Techno froze for a moment, his hands balled into fists at his sides.  
“Out. Thank you for the meal Wilbur, but I don’t think I should stay.” He muttered, and Wilbur crossed his arms on his chest, huffing in disappointment.  
“You’re being stupid.” He said, and stomped towards Techno, grabbing his arm. “It’s the middle of winter, it’s getting dark, you have no idea where you are, and, from what my dad told me, you have people after you.” He tugged Techno back towards the kitchen, and the boy nearly growled at the sudden movement. “If you get out of my house, you’re signing your death sentence!”  
“You sure know fancy words for a forest-raised brat.” Techno seethed out, ripping his arm from Will’s grip, the boy taking a step back in surprise, but by no means giving up. “I am very thankful to both you and your father for helping me out, but I can’t stay here, not in my position.”

With that said, he was back on his track towards the door, fully intend on disappearing into the twilight, but a pair of thin arms wrapped around his waist suddenly made his movement hard to follow through with. He grit his teeth and craned his head back, witnessing Wilbur pressed into his back, his legs firmly planted onto the ground, eyebrows furrowed.  
“Let me go.”  
“Absolutely not!” he shouted, and Techno attempted to push him back, only for the kid to tighten his grip, nearly knocking out the air from his lungs completely. “I can’t just let you go and die after all my dad went through to save you!”

Something was growing in Techno’s chest and he did not like it.

“I can and I will hurt you, Wilbur!” the boy shouted, struggling against the arms that held him like a Venus flytrap would hold a dying insect, but his captor only groaned under his breath, shouting at the same, if not higher volume.  
“Then hurt me, Technoblade! Hurt me and then go hurt yourself!” When an elbow connected with his face he did not flinch. “I’ll hold you back for as long as you don’t hurt me enough not to move because that’s when I’ll be sure I didn’t send someone to their death! I’ll know I have tried!”   
“Stop saying words that don’t fit you! Do you know who you are talking to?”  
“Someone my dad risked his fucking life to save, so sit down and at least wait until he comes back before you make a dumb fucking decision that will void everything he has done!” Wilbur screamed, and his voice cracked between sentences, but he didn’t care, pushing all the remaining air in his lungs out. Techno paused his pushing. No one has ever sworn at him before.

He was always revered by everyone, a bit like a saint, like an idol who could only be admired from afar. Respected, always put first; that was the role of a Crown Prince, and he has grown into that role, taking roots into the throne like a weed that believed to be a desert rose. His mother spoke to him with honey and milk, and his friends ( _friend? Was Iskra his friend or subordinate? They were the same age, but she never looked him in the eye – he did not want to think about that_ ) always bowed their heads when he approached them; Wilbur truly was the first one to look right at him and swear, opening the floodgates of his emotions, ones that others kept sealed shut when he was around.

On one hand, it felt humiliating, and rage grew in his chest alongside the unknown emotion that has been occupying his chest ever since he woke up, his eyes seeing red.  
On the other hand, it felt… Liberating? Humanizing? To be seen as an equal, one in front of whom you don’t have to pretend amity.

Technoblade stopped struggling, and Wilbur Soot loosened his grip.

“Only until Philza comes back. And don’t touch me again.” He muttered, and Will let out a long, shaky breath, collapsing onto a chair. His legs were shaking, and Techno felt a bit of regret about fighting back; he was older and stronger than him, and, honestly, the kid had good intentions, even though they did not quite land the way they were supposed to. He stood in his spot for a moment, awkwardly shuffling his feet, before sitting down on the couch in a stiff position. “And it’s red.”  
“Pardon?”  
“Red’s my favorite color,” Techno said softly, looking out the window so Wilbur wouldn’t see the tips of his ears glowing red in embarrassment. He missed the way Will smiled, the pain in his temple where Techno elbowed him suddenly bearable. The younger boy readjusted himself on the chair so he would be facing his guest, and, after a short period of pregnant silence, spoke again, this time carefully choosing his words.

“Did you like the food?” he asked, and Techno switched his focus from the gentle snowfall outside back to Wilbur, mildly surprised that he still talked to him after all that he has done. He sighed, and rested his head on his hand, carefully avoiding the bandages.  
“Yes. You’re a great cook, Wilbur.”

The great cook beamed at the comment, and something in Techno’s chest stirred again, this time not blinding him with rage, but a new, unexplainable feeling.

“Thank you! I cook a lot when dad isn’t home, so I learned over time!” he laughed, pointing at the stove with his chin. “I don’t have a lot to work with, but I work with what I have!” He seemed honestly proud of himself, smiling and laughing like he wasn’t just in danger of being severely wounded. It made Techno think about what kind of life Wilbur had to live just for a moment; and then he pushed it to the back of his mind, reminding himself that he does not have to humor such thoughts when he was leaving within hours, if not minutes.  
“You’re really good for someone self-taught. Back at the pa-” he coughed into his fist, realizing that he has said too much. Fortunately, Wilbur wasn’t alarmed, and he just looked at techno happily, waiting for him to finish his sentence. “-back at my home, I was fortunate enough to eat food made by chefs, and what you served me today is comparable to that. At your age, your skill level is very impressive.” Techno said, and he could nearly see the pride emanating from Wilbur like steam from a well-cooked meal.  
“Thank you so much! I don’t think you’ve realized how happy you’re making me.” Wilbur laughed and rocked the chair slightly adding extra pep to his small emotional explosion. “Dad praises my food too, but I barely ever see him eat it because he’s out so much.”  
“Speaking of Philza, do you know when he’ll be back?”

The way Wilbur went from peppy and happy to deflated was astounding. He went through all stages of surprise, contemplating, and acceptance within seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice was quiet, much more muted than before, when he was talking about his passion.

“Hey, are you okay?” Techno questioned, almost worried about his quick change in mood. Almost as fast as he fell silent, Wilbur switched back into his cheery persona, waving his hands in front of him in reassurance.  
“Oh, I’m good! I’m good!” he laughed, but it was strained, almost as if he was forcing himself to put on an act. “It’s just that I’m worried about dad, you know. He left pretty stressed today, and I don’t want him to get hurt… He’s strong but he’s reckless.” Wilbur scratched his cheek, looking at the door nervously. Techno was interested.

Now that was an opportunity to gather information that could prove useful if Phil turned against him.

“What’s Philza’s job anyways?” he put on his friendliest voice as he asked that question, and Wilbur hummed, furrowing his eyebrows in thought.  
“I guess you can say he’s a freelancer. He joins companies and caravans if they need people now, he used to do something else in the past, but he doesn’t like talking about that.” He explained, sighing at his lack of knowledge about his father. Techno nodded, his eyes twinkling.

_Interesting._

“Is it a well-paying job?” he continued with his interview, elaborating his question only when Wilbur cocked his head to the side, confused. “I mean, once I leave, I will have to find a job, a place to stay, things as such. I thought that maybe being a freelancer, as you called it, might be the best call for me.” He explained, and Wilbur nodded his head in agreement.  
“You do look like a fighter yes! Still, I don’t think they would hire a child.”

Techno didn’t like being called a child. He just had his coming-of-age ceremony and he was now eligible for marriage and the throne in the Kingdom of Wela. Yet, he kept his composure, even though the corner of his mouth was twitching.

“Oh, I am very skilled, Wilbur-”  
“I still think you will die if you leave, Technoblade.” Will intercepted before Techno could finish his ego-boosting speech, and his chest stirred again, pressing onto his ribs and against his skin. It was getting hotter, and Techno unwillingly rubbed at his chest, his fingers meeting the dried blood. Right, he was still in the clothes from the journey. He needed to find clothing once he lives. Steal it? Buy it? For what money? “Please listen to my father when he comes home. For the twelve years I lived with him, I don’t remember him making a decision that would be detrimental to either him or me. I’m sure he can help you out too.”  
“We’ll see about that.”  
“Technoblade…”  
“I like your pillows. Did you embroider them?”  
  
It was a cop-out. It was a disgusting cop-out, but Techno didn’t want to listen about how great of a person, how great of a dad Phil was. He could still feel the cold stone of his home under his fingertips if he focused, as well as the warmth of the fireplace in the library. It was unfair that he lost it all, and that Will got to have all of that and more and keep in for many more years.  
At that moment he identified the burning feeling in his chest, one that he has never felt before, and one that made his entire body feel on fire.  
  
_Technoblade was jealous._

About the fact that he will never get to have a home with a parent? About the fact that he will never have a home. He scolded himself for thinking dumb thoughts, but the burning remained as Wilbur picked up one of the pillows.  
“Yes, that’s my handiwork. It was a gift for dad’s birthday last year. It doesn’t look the best, but he said that it’s the thought that counts.” Wilbur said softly, his fingertips tracing the rough seams, creating shapes of mythical creatures and forest dwellers. Techno groaned in his mind. From the pan into the fire he goes - was there anything in that house that would not bring sappy feelings into the picture? “Do… Do you like embroidery?” the boy asked, awkwardly trying to push the conversation along, most likely still afraid that Techno would just get up and book it for the entrance. The runner decided to humor him.

“Never got to try. I have a friend who does amazing embroidery, though.”

He remembered Iskra embroidering skirts for the palace maids in the corner of his room as he studied, and the soft song she would hum. His mother would walk in, and sometimes praise her work; then talk to him and praise him next. Almonds and warm milk; that’s how he would remember these nights, but now they were stained with poison and blood, and he shuddered involuntarily, cold even though the fireplace was roaring in the corner of the room. Will didn’t notice this, and with starry eyes asked;  
“Really? You have to introduce me, I need to get better at arts and crafts!” he laughed, before stopping in the middle of it, realizing what he just implied. Techno looked away, and his eyes stopped at the crackling log in the simple fireplace. “Sorry. You probably can’t, right?” he asked, and Techno didn’t answer, his silence being enough for Will to know that he was correct.  
“How much do you know about me?”  
“Not much, just what my dad told me. You are a son of a noble, and your family wanted you gone.”

If it only was that simple, Techno thought, his eyes still locked with the orange and red flames that danced without an audience, for themselves only. If it were only a matter of him being gone, he would not even bother thinking about it, and would probably settle somewhere and stay safe. This was the matter of the throne, and Wilbur had no idea.  
Then again, even if he knew the whole truth, he would not be able to understand the weight on his back. This is exactly why he had to go. He couldn’t bear another betrayal.

“Techno, I’m sorry-”  
  
The door to the cabin slammed open and inside walked Philza Soot, his hat and shoulders covered in fresh snow, face red even though he wrapped it as tightly as he could in a striped scarf, his hands gingerly holding onto a small wooden crate covered with cloth. Wilbur jumped up in joy and raced towards his dad, taking the box from his hands and setting it on the table, already beginning to unwrap the cloth from the top of it. Phil stretched his back, wincing when some of his bones shifted uncomfortably; his age was catching up with him. His eyes swept the room, looking for anything out of order, but he stopped dead in his track when his eyes locked with Techno’s, and a wide smile split his face.

“Technoblade! Good to see you up and about! How are you feeling? The bandages laying okay? Not too tight?” he took his coat off and walked towards the couch, sitting down with an ‘oomph’ right next to Techno. The boy shifted away, and Phil laughed, attempting to touch him with his icy cold hands. After a bit of awkward dodging, the older man finally settled on the couch, sprawling his body on it like he was made of fluid and he was spilling over the soft material.  
“But no, really. Are you feeling better? You were out for good twenty-four hours, mate. Started to worry I gave you too many meds.” He said, and Techno touched the bandage on his face gently. It was an expert job, yes.  
“I’m fine. Thank you for your help.”

Phil beamed.

“You’re welcome! Man, you got me tired out yesterday; we flew all the way from Welstadt to here without a break, and you decided to just pass out right at the start, I thought I lost you there.” He mused, patting the boy gently on the shoulder. Techno flinched at the touch, his scuffle with Wilbur fresh in his mind. Right, he had to tell him he was leaving.  
“Philza, I’m-”  
“Dad, what’s that thing under the loaves of bread?” Will called out from over the crate, having been unpacking the food items for the past couple of minutes. Phil looks over at his son, the question from Techno now lost to the wind, and as Wilbur lifted the bundle from the crate, Phil jumped to his feet, suddenly excited and invigorated. “It’s soft!”  
“Pass me that.”

He held the small package like it was a child, making sure there were no rips, it wasn’t stained in any way, or that it just simply wasn’t swapped with something else while he was getting it. Having made sure that it was the correct item, he unpacked it with a wide smile on his face, the wax paper it was wrapped in set aside on the table to be reused for something else. Phil nodded to himself, satisfied.  
“Here you go, Technoblade.” He said as he handed the boy on the couch the bundle, Will attempting to peek over his dad’s shoulder to see what it was. Used to receiving gifts, Techno took it from Phil’s hands with an approving nod of his head, prompting another smile from the man in front of him.

It was a soft bunch of white and brown material, one that was crisp and pressed, and smelled like lavender. He looked at it for a second, confused, before unfurling it. It was a pair of brown pants and two pairs of pristine white shirts, similar to the bloodied one he was wearing for two days now; it even seemed his size, if not a bit big. He looked at Phil inquisitively, and the man just looked at him with gentle eyes, pointing at the clothes with his chin.  
“I tried to find ones that were as close to your current clothes as possible. The shirts might run a bit big, since I took one of Will’s shirts for comparison and scaled it up…” he scratched the back of his neck, looking away in embarrassment. “But I really hope it fits.”  
Techno’s lips tightened.  
“I do not have a way to repay you for these, Phil.” He said, and Phil broke out in laughter, and his voice sounded like wind chimes in the January hurricane. It took him a while to calm himself, but it felt like spring in the cabin as he laughed, and Techno’s chest squeezed again.  
“Repay me? For clothes? You’re silly.” Phil wheezed out, wiping a stray tear from his eye. “What would you do, walk around splattered with blood for the next couple of weeks? That’s unhealthy.” He finished and turned around to grab a warm mug from his son’s hands – while the two were talking Will managed to make tea. The speed at which he worked was honestly amazing. Still, Techno frowned.

“Thank you, but I don’t think I should stay here any longer. You can take this back, I’m sure it will fit Wilbur.” He finally admitted, his grip tightening on the pants in his hands.

Phil’s expression darkened.

“Okay. It was nice to meet you, Technoblade.” He simply said, and he sat at the table, not minding the heartbreaking look from Will who paused in the middle of the room, staring at his father in utter shock. “Make sure to change your bandages often. There’s a village around forty-five minutes on foot from here, I’m sure you can figure something out there.” He added, taking a sip out of his mug. With no words said Techno stood up and having folded the clothes and placed it on the couch next to him, he headed back for the door. Wilbur panicked.  
“Dad! You said he would stay until he would get better!” he shouted, but Phil’s face remained unchanged as he watched Techno approach the door without hesitation in his step.  
“I said he would stay if he wants to, Will.” His father answered calmly. “This one seems to be rushing straight into being another page in the history books, though. Make yourself some tea, I’ll tell you about the market.”

Wilbur, conflicted, stared at Techno for a moment, before going off to fix himself a drink. At the same time, Technoblade’s chest was burning, tearing him apart. His brain told him to leave and fend for himself, not to place his life in someone’s hands again, but his heart held him grounded to the wooden floor, just a couple of steps away from the door that leads out into the forest.

“Weren’t you leaving, Technoblade?” Phil asked and Techno turned his head, one good eye locking with the blue irises across the table. “Oh, I can ask Will to fix you something to eat for the way, like a sandwich. If you want, of course.”  
“Philza, what do you mean by rushing straight into being another page in the history book?” he asked reluctantly, his brain screaming at him to just reach for the doorknob, pull it towards him, and leave. Still, he stood and listened to Phil humming for a moment, as he thought about the answer.  
“Well, you’re alone now right? The last of your bloodline.” He was brutally honest, and the words stung, the fire in Techno’s chest growing with every truth Phil spoke. “As far as I can see it, you’re very motivated to end it right here, right now.” There was a ghost of a smile on his lips, mocking, but at the same time filled with pity, and the boy turned towards him fully, his back now to the door that called out for him and screamed his name.

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” A sense of deja-vu washed over the discarded noble, and he remembered the Lobby of Elders, the fifty pairs of eyes looking right at him with the very same expression that Phil now held on his face, his eyes half-lidded and disinterested. “Are you suggesting that I can’t survive on my own? I’ve been trained since I was able to walk, Philza, I can fend for myself.” He added, and the man at the table let out a small chuckle into his tea, before his eyes grew cold again.  
“You weren’t so cocky in the clearing, Technoblade.” He said, and rage boiled in Techno’s stomach.  
“There were nineteen of them! I was scared!” he snapped, but when Phil’s face softened, he realized he lost.

“You still are.”

 _Oh_. 

_Was he?_

He didn’t notice how completely drenched in sweat his body was. He did not notice how terribly loud the thumping of blood in his ears was; his wound pounded with dull pain, and his eyes were getting unfocused as he continued the staring match with Phil, who by that point stood up from his chair, his body not even being able to relax for a moment.  
Maybe he was scared. That was only the second time in his life he was feeling true fear, so he wasn’t sure; but the voice in his head that screamed at him to leave before was now much, much quieter, whispering into his ear rather than surrounding him with unbearable white noise.

“Technoblade- No, Techno.” Phil walked up to Techno, who was now awkwardly standing between the door and the table, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I know you’ve just been thrown into a situation you didn’t expect. You’re upset, and you think that your entire world has come crashing down-” he spoke softly, but Techno interrupted him, the heat in his throat unmanageable.  
“It did, Philza. You don’t understand, in just six days- And on my birthday too-” he muttered, and Phil just sighed, an unreadable expression on his face. “I really need to go, because they will follow me here, and I’m not sure what your intentions are towards me, but if you’re on my side for some reason, Wela will hurt you and…”

“Breathe. Calm down.” He instructed him, and Technoblade shut his eye tight, calming his racing mind and palpitating heart. “Listen. You’re free to leave whenever you want. I’m not holding you here by force, you need to understand that.” Phil was speaking slowly and softly as one would speak to a wounded animal, and Techno listened, the words making the panicked voice in his head calm down just the slightest bit. “Still, I think it would be in your best interest to heal first before you decide to do anything else. We are on the other side of the border, Wela wouldn’t come here without a clear reason.”  
“You were hired by Anastasius, he knows who you are.” He said, and Phil hummed in amusement, delivering a soft flick to Techno’s forehead. “Hey!”  
“I use different names for different jobs. Anastasius knows me as… Roman Wood. I think. I have a lot of names.” He laughed, and Techno’s chest squeezed, the rage subsiding.

_Should he stay?_

Phil’s hand left his shoulder, and the spot he left was so, so cold. He craved the comforting touch again.  
“All in all, you can stay here for as long as you need to. Will needs company, and by helping you out, I already entangled myself in your life, so I might as well finish the job, right?” he laughed, and the voice in Techno’s head died down completely. The fire in his chest subsided, and it was warm now, a fireplace near his heart. He bit the inside of his cheek in conflict, but the words he spoke were already decided.  
“Only until I heal.” He said, and Phil shot him the warmest smile he has seen in his life.  
“It’s a deal, Techno.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your pride will be the death of you. 
> 
> I pulled 11k on the first chapter and now I'm just looking at the screen like mmm yea that's definitely something I'll be able to do again  
> I hope I was able to portray the awkwardness of first meetings as a kid well, also Techno's spoiled prince side jumped out a bit here; don't worry about it, he'll get better.  
> BONUS:  
> Here is the link to the map of the continent this fic revolves around, plus a zoomed in map that shows the path Techno and Phil took in chapter one!  
> https://imgur.com/a/cmgimYE


	3. Morpheus et Theseus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The broken and the unafraid.

His fingers worked the pristine white shirt with a decent pace, only one or two hiccups along the way, such as the small button slipping into the wrong hole. Technoblade cursed the tailor as he struggled, once again opening the entire thing up to redo his handiwork.   
It wasn’t his fault that he got easily distracted, and Wilbur Soot staring at him from the corner of the room was definitely just the right amount of disturbance to trip him up every time he even slightly raised his eyes from the white material. 

“Do you need help?” Wilbur mused with an amused smile. Techno frowned.   
“No,” he muttered, his fingers finally settling into a proper rhythm. After a short moment, the shirt was on, fitting his form perfectly; for better or for worse his clothing size was almost the same as Phil’s son. Wilbur cheered from behind him, and Techno held in his urge to make a comment that would urge the younger boy to seek better hobbies than watching men dress up. Still, he glanced at himself in the mirror hung on the wall. 

He was a mess, yes. 

His skin lacked color, his eyes were sullen, and the bandage that covered half of his face did not add any charm to his already battered figure. The clothes he wore might have been fresh and clean, but he still felt filthy on the inside, his skin crawling with impurity he didn’t fully understand the origin of. 

Techno stared. He was used to looking in the mirror – back in the palace, he would stand in front of one for hours as tailors circled him, taking measurements, making adjustments, complimenting him on his physique. The materials they wrapped him in were soft and carried a certain smell that he never could pinpoint, but it told the story of an evening in a large room, surrounded by voices he didn’t know and reflections of himself that spoke only what he wanted to hear. 

The mirror he was looking at right now was cracked, though, smudged with something, and all he could see reflected in the surface was himself and Wilbur’s smiling face. One pair of eyes. No touch of stranger’s hands over his body as they created an outer shell for him to face the world in. No echo of heels clicking on stone in the corridors. No schedule to chain him to a daily routine. 

Right, schedule. 

“Wilbur, what do I do now?” he asked, mentally cringing on how pathetic that sentence sounded. Will cocked his head to the side, confused.   
“What do you mean?” 

Techno sighed, dragging a hand down the unbandaged side of his face in pure frustration. The boy behind him grinned. Was he doing this on purpose?   
“Can I do anything around the house? I don’t intend to be a freeloader,” he said, turning around so he wouldn’t have to stare at himself anymore. Wilbur raised his eyebrows in surprise and glanced around the room. It was his room; smaller than the kitchen, but still spacious enough to house a growing boy, with a bed, a wardrobe, a writing desk, and a couple of smaller chests for him to store his things in. Flowers were growing on the windowsill, resilient against the frost outside, their blue blooms turned towards the sun that hid behind the clouds. The pots they were planted in were painted in bright colors; artwork of a child who knew what chaos was and used it to his advantage. It added a bit of personality to the otherwise barren room, and with an eye of an art critic, Techno gave silent approval to the little art piece by the window. 

He didn’t want to look at the wall behind him – the mirror was still there, and he had enough of his own visage for the day. 

“I suppose I can ask dad about that tomorrow,” Wilbur mused, scratching the back of his head in thought. “He did tell you to just take it easy today, though,” he added, and Techno only sighed, crossing his arms on his chest. He shuffled in place awkwardly for a moment, and Wilbur caught onto the hint, patting the place on the bed next to him. His body heavy in both embarrassment and absolute exhaustion, he sat down by Wilbur with as much grace as he could muster out, and Wilbur smiled, making himself comfortable. The boy was giddy, surprisingly so considering the fact that the last time they talked, Techno was very much trying to beat him into unconsciousness just so he would let go of him. Still, there he was, kicking his legs up and down, and looking at Techno with childish wonder in his eyes.   
“I’ve never had someone sleep over at my house before, you know?” Will spoke, bouncing happily on the mattress.   
“You mean you’ve never had guests here?”   
“No! We had guests, just not ones my age. Old people don’t exactly want to speak to me about books and music and things.” Wilbur rested his face on his hands, looking at the mirror in front of him. His image split in two along the crack and he quickly looked away, his eyes again focused on the boy to the right of him. “Do you like to read, Techno?” 

He really decided to capitalize on the first part of his name, didn't he? At least “ _Techno_ ” sounded like a name, if Will chose “ _Blade_ ” to be his nickname, he would probably bury himself underground and never come out. Imagine calling someone “ _Sword_ ” or “ _Rapier_ ”. These were things he should have thought through before he blurted out the first cool thing that came to his mind as Phil was flying him to his home. Then again, he was bleeding severely – maybe he could attribute his poor naming sense to rapid blood loss. 

“I do enjoy reading,” he spoke dryly, but Wilbur lit up like a Christmas tree.   
“Really!? What’s your favorite book? Do you have a favorite genre?” he was shooting questions at him like he was a loaded gun and Techno was the target, yet there was something so contagious in his excitement that Techno couldn’t help but answer truthfully.   
“Well, most of the things I read were textbooks on war theory and history... But if I have to choose something I enjoyed it would be mythos, I think?” Techno spoke cautiously and Wilbur nodded approvingly, already on his feet and racing to his bookshelf, one that was overfilled with tomes of different thickness and color. 

He jumped up slightly to reach one of the books on a higher shelf, and his fingers wrapped around a deep red cover that slid easily from its respective space. Will patted the cover a bit, running his fingertips along the embossed golden letters on the spine, before turning around and running back to where Techno was sitting. He pressed the book into his hands, and Techno took it, the reflex of accepting gifts once again taking over his body before he thought. 

“Mythos - Greek Classics” the title read, and Technoblade hummed in interest, thumbing through the pages quickly. To his surprise, most chapters in the tome were foreign to him, even though he was sure that the Royal Library had all he could wish for and more. He raised his eyes from the page and was met with Wilbur’s face right next to his.   
“Eh-”   
“Cool, right? Dad brought it as a gift from one of his journeys south!” Will was back on the mattress, now peeking over Techno’s shoulder as the latter looked through the contents of the book, his eyebrows traveling higher and higher up his face with every new title. “I also have one on Slavic myths, and one on Northern Tales...” he droned on and on, but Techno was already elbow deep into the first story of the book, Will’s words entering his brain with one ear and leaving through the other. 

Eventually, Will stopped speaking, and the mattress raised just for a moment before dipping again. Techno didn’t bother looking at what was happening. When he eventually felt someone leaning against him, he glanced to the side, noticing that the boy that was just lecturing him on folklore was now casually reading through a book on the history of music, his head resting on Techno’s shoulder like they knew each other forever. 

Technoblade, the betrayed crown prince of Wela was very, very conflicted. He understood that Wilbur was someone who craved human contact, being raised in the cabin with his dad, without much contact from the outside world – at least that’s what he gathered from Wilbur’s excited rants. Still, Techno was someone completely foreign to both Phil and his son; trusting someone that quick was foolish; there truly wasn’t a word better suited to explain it. Maybe it all came from the way someone was brought up; his mother always taught him to stay on his toes and be wary of everyone and everything. Phil looked like a more laid-back man – were his parenting methods as lax as him?   
Wilbur adjusted himself on Techno’s shoulder, and the boy let out a defeated sigh before going back to his book. It was better to deal with a bit of discomfort rather than a tense atmosphere that would make itself known if he just shrugged him off. 

At least the myths were interesting. 

*** 

“Hey dad,” Wilbur asked over dinner, only a couple of hours later. The soup was delicious; warm chicken broth with vegetables and potatoes – it warmed both Techno’s body and soul. The bread that was served as a side was fresh and crispy. He hated to admit it, but he was already head over heels with Will’s cooking, and he couldn’t wait to see what else the kid could make. “Where will Techno sleep?” 

Phil’s spoon paused halfway towards his mouth, his entire body freezing up. Will visibly slumped in his chair, disappointment emanating from his body like steam from the soup that was on the table in front of him 

“Ah. About that-” Phil laughed, gently setting his spoon back in the bowl. He looked around the room awkwardly, and Techno was the one to break the silence this time, unable to handle the second-hand embarrassment.   
“I can sleep on the couch here. It’s comfortable, I sat on it before,” he spoke, and Phil looked at him in astonishment. Wilbur shot up from his seat, the soup forgotten.   
“No way! Your back is going to hurt so much, and I don’t think you would fit, actually! You’re tall!” he exclaimed with fervor suited more for academic debates than sleeping arrangements, and Phil shook his head, playing with the chunks of carrot in his soup with an amused half-smile on his face.   
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Techno teased, and Wilbur faltered for a second, before switching back into his fighting stance.   
“It’s not! I just care about the wellbeing of your joints!” 

Phil snorted into his bowl, his shoulders shaking in repressed laughter. Even Techno’s stony façade was cracking, and he had to look to the side not to get infected with Philza’s giggles. 

“Wellbeing of my joints, huh?” he muttered, and he exhaled the air out of his nose just a little too loudly. Wilbur just stood there, over his unfinished meal, looking from his guest to his father, who was now banging his fist on the table in sheer euphoria of laughter. “Thank you very much, I’ll pass the message to all of them,” Techno added, and Will’s face grew red in embarrassment.   
“Anyways!” his voice was just a little bit higher than usual, and Technoblade bit his tongue to stop laughing. “He can sleep with me! I have a big bed.”   
“Sure, sure, he can sleep with you- Wait, Wilbur, what?” Phil finally raised his head from the table, turning it to face his son. His face was flushed from laughing, and there were small tears in the corners of his eyes, but he looked a Willbur in pure surprise. “I thought you hated sharing your room with anyone?” 

“I do!” Will retaliated, sitting back down on his chair and grabbing the spoon again. “Techno is my age though, and the couch is truly a bad place to sleep on, no matter what you say.” he finished his thought, fishing out a piece of celery and popping it into his mouth. “I just want to sleep by the wall, if that’s okay.”   
“Hey, I never agreed to this-”   
“I think it’s a good idea, Techno.” Phil interrupted the young boy midway through his veto, waving his spoon around like a magic wand that was supposed to transfer his arguments straight into his brain. “I don’t think you’d be comfortable sleeping with me, and the couch...” he glanced back at the piece of furniture in question. “Let’s just say there is a reason for which my back hurts so much recently.” 

Technoblade decided not to ask further questions, instead devoting himself to enjoying the soup until the very last drop. 

*** 

He wanted to leave, and he was going to do it right at that moment if Will’s leg touched him again. His toes were cold, and each time Techno even thought that he was slipping into a peaceful slumber, Will kicked in his sleep and made him flinch as their skin touched. What was his blood pressure like if his fingers and toes were so cold? 

He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, his eyes closing and opening lazily. Everything was foreign to him in that house hidden between the trees, from the smell, through the colors to the texture of the walls. Still, spiderwebs in the corners of the room looked the same as in his room back home, the birds, though of different species, sang the same songs, and Wilbur’s soft breathing next to him made him feel just a little less lonely, though he hated to admit it. 

Cold foot touched his shin again and Techno had to restrain himself from suffocating the boy next to him with a pillow. 

There was warmth in his chest as he made himself comfortable in the hand-embroidered sheets, deciding to put a pillow between him and Wilbur to limit his leg reach as best as possible. The pillows smelled like lavender, a scent that was so prevalent in the entire house; did they dry herbs in the attic? Techno could swear the smell itself was coming from the pillow – he wouldn’t be surprised if Phil mixed some of the dried flowers in with duck down. The sound of the forest sang him a lullaby as he closed his eyes, and for a second, he was back home. 

*** 

_He was back home._

_He was sitting in front of the fireplace in his room. There was a book in his hand, but he couldn’t quite make out the words that were on the pages; the ink danced across the paper and avoided his gaze every time he tried to make out the letters of the familiar Welan alphabet. It was his room, yes, it was his home, but something was off, and the well-trained bulb in the back of his head shone brightly in alarm as he raised himself from the comfortable armchair, the old wood creaking as it felt relief. Iskra was sitting in her usual chair in the corner, her hands working a long red piece of material masterfully; she was embroidering a cape for him to wear for the New Year’s celebrations, and she was very proud of it, though her fingertips stung when she pricked it with a needle over and over again. She was humming a song – an old lullaby that had a melody that was easy to follow while focusing on something else._

_It was peaceful. The crackling of logs in the fireplace, the song, the smell of cinnamon and almonds; it weaved an image he didn’t even realize he missed dearly._  
_“Your Majesty?” Iskra asked, raising her head from the cape in her hands. Techno glanced towards Iskra’s corner, the pillows she was sitting on ever-scattered. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”_  
_“I do? I’m sorry, I-” he sighed, hiding his face in his hands. “I think I had a terrible dream.”_  
_“Should I call for the court physician? I’m sure he could prescribe you something for peaceful sleep, Your Majesty.” the woman answered, setting the cape gently to the side. Techno waved his hands in front of him, dismissing her._  
_“No, it’s okay. I just need to relax,” he mumbled, his eyes locked on the fire that danced and created shapes not yet named by humanity. “Would you mind pouring me some tea?”_  
_“As you wish.”_

_The room was filled with ginger and orange as Iskra brewed the golden drink. Technoblade closed his eyes for a second, the warmth on his face loosening up the muscles he didn’t know he tensed. Why was he even stressed? He was home, with his friend and family. It snowed behind the window. He loved the snow._

_“Your tea,” Iskra said as she handed him the teacup, the design of dancing dragons intertwined with jasmine flowers painted with gold and purple on the delicate china. It was filled to the brim, and Techno grabbed it gently from Iskra’s hands, careful not to spill it. The smell was heavenly, and he smiled for a split second, before craning his head back up to thank his assistant._

_His blood ran cold._

_For a split second, he saw Iskra’s face from underneath her veil – or, well, what was supposed to be her face. What he saw was nothing. A smooth surface, like polished wood, lacking lips, eyes, or nose; a mannequin. With a trembling heart, Techno dropped the cup on the floor, the china shattering on the floor instantly, and with his now free hand he grabbed the veil and tugged it harshly, ripping it from the silver band it was attached to. Surely enough, nothing stared back, only a startled yelp coming from Iskra’s invisible lips. He stood up in a panic, glancing to his left, at a large mirror that stood propped up against the wall._

_His features were also gone, his fingertips meeting smooth surface as he grabbed at it in distress searching for ridges, inclinations, anything that was not smooth skin. His stomach churned as he snapped his head to look at Iskra again, who was now immobile, stuck in a position he left her in. His own joints locked in, and his body rapidly grew colder and colder. The logs crackled. Technoblade screamed._

_The castle fell apart._

*** 

It was hard to breathe. 

Techno shot up in bed, his heart rate so high that he felt lightheaded the moment his body went upright. He gripped the front of his thin shirt with his hand, each shake, each tremble resonating through his body like a ripple on calm waters. His lungs burned with every breath, and the sudden blood rush made his wound flare up with pain – even though he didn’t want to, he groaned in pain, and that was enough to wake Wilbur up. The boy who, until then, was sleeping spread in nearly starfish position turned his head to the side, trying to focus his sleep locked eyes. 

“Techno?” his voice was raspy and quiet, but audible nevertheless, and Techno turned his head towards his bedmate, staring at him with his one remaining eye. “Oh man, you’re sweaty. Are you okay? Does the wound hurt?”   
Techno stayed quiet, his vision straining in the pitch darkness. Wilbur had a nose, a mouth, and a pair of blinking, worried eyes. He exhaled shakily.   
“Nightmare. Sorry for waking you up,” he whispered a quiet apology, not wanting to wake up Phil, who was sleeping in the room over. “Go back to sleep.” 

The bedsheets rustled, and Wilbur was now sitting up, rubbing away the remaining sleep in his eyes. Techno just stared at his face, making sure that everything stayed in the same place. What the hell even was that dream? Never in his life has he been so afraid to face himself in the mirror, but he still would have to look at it the moment the sun rose over the horizon, as the cracked surface hung proudly right by the entrance door, where he couldn’t possibly miss it. Techno felt nauseous for a moment, as the image of his face, completely smooth flashed through his mind. Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. 

“You’re not going to stop thinking about it even if you try,” Wilbur spoke, shuffling closer to Techno. The latter jumped up slightly in surprise at how well did he guess his thoughts. Then again, he was very intuitive since they met. “Turn your pillow around and lay back down.”   
For some reason, Techno obliged. 

Wilbur smiled, though it was hard to notice in the darkness of the room.   
“I used to have nightmares too. Shadows are scary sometimes, and dad always said that I have a big imagination or something along these lines.” he laughed to himself, and Techno rolled his eyes under the cover of the night. “Uh, dad used to tell me stories when that happened. So I could focus on something else.”   
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to tell me a bedtime story.” Techno deadpanned, and Wilbur looked almost offended, had it not been for the playful smile on his face.   
“No, no bedtime stories. I don’t know many of these, actually.” he mused, and himself laid back down on the pillow, turning to the side so he would face his bedmate. “I can tell you a myth though? You said you liked them.”   
“I don’t think you can tell me one that I haven’t heard before.” 

Wilbur went silent for a moment, obviously thinking. His fingertips played a familiar rhythm on the sheets, before he spoke again, his smile audible in his voice. 

“Have you heard of Theseus?” He asked, and Techno hummed, furrowing his brows as he tried to match the name to a myth. In the end, he drew a blank, and he shook his head no, the bandage rubbing against the pillowcase. Will took a deep breath and began telling his story. 

“He was the son of the king of Athens, but he grew away from home because he was raised by the daughter of the king of Troezen. When he became of age, his mother sent him on a journey to venture to Athens, to meet his father and become the heir to the throne,” he spoke, and his voice was gentle and melodic, almost as if he was singing a song rather than telling a story. “On the way there, he made a name for himself by committing many amazing deeds, like defeating a man who killed others by tearing them apart between two pine trees-”   
“Ow.”   
“You can say that again.” Wilbur laughed quietly at Techno’s short interjection, before continuing the tale. “Um, he defeated a giant boar – no, don’t laugh, I didn’t choose my name – and after that, he drowned a murderer in the sea. He outsmarted so many people, killed dangerous people in duels, he was overall very powerful and strong!” he spoke with passion, and Techno smiled gently, glad that the night covered his features. The bad dream he just had was still here, but like melting snow it was slowly giving way to the story Wilbur weaved.   
“When he finally got to Athens, he found out that his dad got married to another woman, one that practiced magic. She tried to persuade the king to poison his son, but the king was smart and saw through her tricks, and then made Theseus the heir!” Wilbur cheered quietly, betraying to the world that it was his favorite part of the story. “And even after he became the prince, he was still doing amazing things, like exposing a plot against his father or defeating a bull that could breathe fire!”   
“That doesn’t sound very realistic.” Techno hummed and Will laughed again, making himself comfortable on his side of the bed.   
“Techno, I can’t believe that in a story that has gods, demigods, and spirits, it’s the bull you don’t find realistic.” 

This time Technoblade couldn’t stop himself from laughing. It was short and quiet but it was there – and it was probably the first time since he had to leave his home that the truly laughed; a movement that puts a sparkle in your eyes and a knot in your stomach that you can’t get rid of until you laugh it out. Wilbur smiled back, shuffling a bit closer to Techno so he could see his face better.   
“Just like I thought! You look completely different when you smile, Techno.” he mused, and Techno’s face instantly went back to its stony façade.   
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not smiling.”   
“I can hear it in your voice!”   
“Oh man, I suddenly can’t hear, wow, I must be getting sleepy!” 

It was simple bickering, but the bed was warm, the snow was falling on the other side of the window, and for a split second, Technoblade felt happy. 

“Do you want to hear the rest of the story?” Will asked, and Techno nodded in agreement, his eyes already heavy, but his mind eager to know the rest of the story, no matter how disinterested he might have acted. “Okay! So! Theseus decided to go and slay the minotaur that was trapped in the Cretan labyrinth, and he promised his dad that if he comes back successfully, he will put on a white sail on his ship instead of the black one.”   
“Why would they put on a black sail? That’s a waste of dye.”   
“Oh, that’s because it was a ship that carried sacrifices to the minotaur. It was supposed to be all mourning-like, and stuff.”   
“I see. Thanks.”   
“No problem!” Wilbur chimed, and paused for a moment, trying to remember the rest of the story after Techno interrupted him. “Right, so Theseus managed to slay the minotaur, and he returned to Athens, but the entire crew got so drunk on the way that they forgot to change the sail to the white one like he promised to his dad. Because of that, when the king saw the black sail in the distance, he thought that his only son has died, and threw himself off a cliff in heartbreak.” he quieted down for a while, and Techno sighed. That’s what happens when you make promises lightly. “Theseus became the new king of Athens and he united the land of Attica... Oh, he had a son with an Amazon princess, but that also caused a war, and the princess fell off a cliff... This part of the myth is blurry to me, I’m sorry, I’m tired.” Will muttered and rubbed his eyes, forcing himself to stay awake. 

“It’s okay, you can go to sleep-”   
“No, we’re almost done, I’d feel bad if I left you hanging.” he coughed once to jumpstart his vocal cords, and, once again very focused, continued the myth, drawing the story to its unfortunate close. “Theseus did a lot of good things for his country, but there are always people who are against you; a descendant of an old king staged an uprising and, in the end, Theseus had to leave his country. Still, even then he couldn’t have peace, he was pursued and killed by being thrown off a cliff.” he finished, frowning about the fact that he had to end the tale on a bitter end. “Sorry that it’s not a happy ending.”   
“Not everything has to have a happy ending, Wilbur,” Techno muttered in response; his eyes extremely heavy. “Sometimes stories that come from tragedy carry the best morals.” 

Wilbur sighed, closing his eyes. 

“I’ll look for a better story tomorrow. Remind me in the morning,” he said with a gentle smile on his face. Realizing that his comment has been purposefully ignored, Techno did the same, his mind full of the story of a man who got everything and lost it just as fast.   
“Remind me to remind you,” he muttered back, and Wilbur giggled, succumbing to his tiredness.   
“Good night, Techno. Wake me up if you have another nightmare.”   
“Good night Wilbur.” 

He slept peacefully until Will shook him awake at daybreak, calling him for breakfast. 

_“...and thank you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter, filler chapter that focuses on Wilby and Techno. I felt like that was needed, since the last two chapters were really heavy.  
> Thank you so much for your kind comments!! It makes my day to read them, and it pushes me forward to write more - next week we're most likely going back to long-ass chapters until I feel like we need another mental break www.  
> Again, thank you for sticking around!


	4. Sumptus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the past catches up.

If there was one thing Wilbur Soot hated, it was algebra. It’s not that he was bad at it, of course, but it was just... complicated. Yes, that was the word he was looking for. Frustrating, headache-inducing, unnecessary – where in his life would he have to use the quadratic formula? When would someone run up to him and tell him to calculate the x in an equation or he’s dead? 

Never. The answer is never. 

Thus, when a low groan left his chest as he slammed his head against his notebook that was set on the kitchen table, instead of picking himself back up he just remained in that folded position, hoping for the knowledge to enter his brain by itself. The numbers and symbols however stayed fixed to the thin pages, and with a sigh Wilbur propped his chin against the table, staring at the person on the other side of it with a tired expression.   
Technoblade lifted his eyes from the thick book on mythology in front of him and returned the gaze, confused. 

“What is it?” he asked casually, flipping the page in the tome in his hand. Wilbur only groaned, his eyebrows furrowing.   
“Equations,” Will muttered back, his eyes flickering across the golden words imprinted into the cover Techno was holding. Lore of Rome, third edition; oh how he wished to be reading that instead of the squiggles currently being smudged under his chin. Stories of heroes and beasts, politicians and traitors - that’s what he wanted to consume at that moment. Techno smirked, continuing to read. The story was engaging, and, well, if Will was unable to complete his homework for the day, that was his problem. 

“Techno, did you learn how to quadratic equations when you were back home? I assume you had a tutor?” Wilbur mused, his fingers tapping a melody on the table. The boy in question hummed.   
“Yeah. That’s the last thing I learned before I left home,” he answered, and Will’s head perked up. Regret instantly bloomed in Techno’s chest as Wilbur scrambled to his feet, gathering the notebook and pens in his arms. The moments of peace were over as he looped around the table, reaching the sun-bathed part of the room. The notebook was pressed into Techno’s chest, and a cheeky grin was delivered; he was undone. 

“Help?” Wilbur asked, avoiding Techno’s tired eye. 

It has been a week since Phil welcomed Techno into his household. In that time, he has learned to do small tasks around the house – shoveling the snow in front of the door, putting away dishes, sweeping the floor; he refused to stay put even though both Will and Phil insisted on it. He has decided that he wasn’t going to be a freeloader, however, and the moment his pain became manageable he was up in Will’s face about the things he could do. The other boy yielded easily, and, in the end, the only thing that Techno was forbidden from touching was the stove. Wilbur was very adamant about being the only one to cook – he grasped onto that one thing he could do well and decided to master it. Still, the guest was okay with that turn of events; he looked forward to Will’s creations, and with the amount of love the younger boy put into it, who was he to argue? Each sandwich, each piece of masterfully crafted cake, each perfectly baked piece of meat eventually found its way onto the table and into his stomach, and Technoblade was happy with what he was given. 

Just because of that, perhaps, he should give a little back. 

He set the book down, the leather cover letting out a soft ‘thud’ against the wooden table, and he grabbed the notebook out of Will’s hands, causing an explosion of joy on the boy’s face, one that went unnoticed as he flipped through the thin workbook. Wilbur’s handwriting was really neat, almost to the point of Techno wondering if he’s putting more time into making sure every letter and number was the same size than actually solving the equations. In some spots, another handwriting was prevalent; seemingly rushed, the letters wide and tilted to the right. It was most likely Phil’s, Techno thought, as the writing was decorated with doodles of smiley faces, flowers, and small animals that pointed to mistakes Will made in his calculations. He was doing his best to help his son learn, that much Techno had to admit. Still, the number of mistakes that were corrected over and over again in nearly identical equations showed that he might not have been the best teacher, at least in that subject. 

“How much do you understand?” he asked, flipping the pages from one cover to the other. Wilbur hummed, taking a peek at his opened guidebook he left on the other side of the table.   
“The basics I get.” the boy spoke, his eyes switching between the book and Techno’s frown. “It’s just- Each time I think I did something correctly, the answer in the book doesn’t match the one I wrote down,” he whined, and he would have continued to do so had the kettle on the stove not started to make noises. “Tea, tea, let me make us some tea.” 

The young noble scanned the numbers in front of him as he attempted to recall the teachings of his many tutors. The formula was there, and it was correctly derived. The graph was neat, and the hyperbole was drawn on in the places where the solutions pointed towards. It looked like a perfectly solved exercise, and Techno was about to start questioning the writers and editors of Wilbur’s guide book, before his eyes caught onto a small, barely noticeable detail, one that blended together with the sheer amount of numbers and letters on the page. 

“The minus,” Techno said, and Will, who was in the middle of placing a mug in front of his temporary teacher snapped his head up in surprise. “B squared can’t be negative. If you start with a negative, you have to change it into a positive.” he finished, a triumphant smile on his face. Wilbur stared at him blankly for a moment, before he perked up.   
“Oh!” he exclaimed, hitting his fist against his open palm. “That sounds about right!”   
“Minus four squared. That’s what tripped you up.” Techno laid the notebook back down on the table, and Will craned his neck to double-check if his guest was correct. “Try solving it again, but mind the minus.”   
“Okay! Thank you, Technoblade!” 

The room was abuzz with happiness, and Techno felt his whole body relax. The tea, ginger, and orange, was oddly nostalgic as he sipped on it, watching the boy on the opposite side of the table write slowly, double-checking every single equation he did. Now that he wasn’t reading, he could observe Wilbur struggling, his eyebrows furrowed as he scratched away on the pristine pages. He had a moment to think – and the first thing that came to his head was the fact that Wilbur was eleven, soon to be twelve. What kind of child learns quadratic equations at eleven years of age? Techno understood his own teachers pushing more and more advanced knowledge onto him at an early age since he had to be prepared to ascend the throne at any moment, but Will? Will was just a son of a traveler, a mercenary; either Phil pushed him in the same way Techno’s tutors did, or Wilbur Soot had an exceptional capacity for learning, and Techno would have to take back every joke he made at his expense in his head. 

“The answer should be one and eight point five, right?” Will asked, and Techno looked over at the thick book spread open on the table. The boy was right – in bold red font, the answer burned against the white of the paper.   
“Yes.” 

Wilbur let out a loud noise of victory and threw one of his fists, still clutching the pencil, into the air. It was his first win against the monster known as quadratics that day, and he hoped it wouldn’t be the last. Before Techno could ask another question, Will was already elbow-deep in the next exercise, picking up speed as he wrote, an excited smile on his face, graphite from the pencil smudged on his cheek going completely unnoticed. It seemed like he had a hang of it now, and Techno reached back for the book, adamant to finish the tome that evening, before Phil came back and shooed both of them to bed, threatening to wake them up at daybreak – he never lived up to his threats, and both of the boys slept until they had enough of slumber. Even sleeping with Wilbur became more comfortable as time went on; they talked in hushed whispers late into the night about literature and art, and it was better than any bedtime story nannies and wet nurses at the castle could ever tell him. 

Though he hated to admit it, Technoblade felt very comfortable at Philza’s home. Still, there was this needle of uncertainty stuck in his heart each time he glanced at the door – the hair at the back of his neck rose, and his heart beat just a bit faster each time a shadow moved behind the large window that opened up to the forest beyond. He wanted to feel safe, but the paranoia and smell of wet stone didn’t let him. 

“Can you check this one?” Will asked, and with a sigh, Techno put his book down once again, a small voice in the back of his head whispering to him that he probably won’t get to finish it. This time, though, he didn’t have to check much; everything looked good, the line was smooth, and Wilbur was grinning from ear to ear, proud of his work.   
“Good job. Everything checks out,” he said, and if Will could smile wider, he could.   
“Reckon I could do the review now?”   
“Probably.” 

He went back to work, but Techno didn’t pick the book up again, knowing full well that he’ll be interrupted. Instead, he sipped his tea peacefully, listening to Wilbur hum to himself as he solved exercise after exercise, his voice picking up in cheer each time he checked the answer and it matched the penned equations in the notebook. It was a pleasant afternoon in the Soot house. 

Until the knock at the door arrived, of course. 

Will paused his work and turned his body so he could face the door. 

“Is it Phil?” Techno asked, raising his visible eyebrow in surprise. Will’s lips were pressed tightly together, his expression no longer surrounded by stars and soap bubbles. That wasn’t a good sign.   
“No way. Dad never comes back this early. He’ll be back in an hour or two, but now-?” he paused, waiting, but the knocks came again, this time harder and more adamant. “I’ve no idea, Techno.” 

A voice in the back of Technoblade’s head spoke up again, this time louder and clearer. It told him to be careful, and to be on high alert. He listened. Wilbur stood from his seat, glancing nervously at Techno who also shifted in his seat.   
“Should I open the door?” Will asked, his voice unusually quiet and strained. Techno looked away.   
“It’s your house, Wilbur.”   
It was a dry answer, but one that absolved him of responsibility. Wilbur looked at Techno, then at the door, and then back at Techno. He was torn, that much was evident, but Technoblade couldn’t make this decision for him – it wasn’t his house, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stand face to face with someone who could possibly reveal his hiding place to Wela. The knock came again, followed by a low voice, shouting at the door; 

“Mr. Wood? Hello? Are you home?” 

Wilbur’s face gained its colors back as he took on an expression of ultimate relief. It was one of his father’s aliases, one that seemed oddly familiar to Techno – he didn’t want to think about it. He shot a smile at his guest and mouthed ‘dad’s acquaintance, probably’, before skipping to the door, his hand working the small chain that kept the entrance closed quickly. Techno rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to Wilbur’s notebook. He was halfway through a question when they got interrupted, and he seemed to be doing good progress on it; he minded the minus that time, and Techno smiled gently, unnoticed by anyone. Wilbur was doing a great job. 

“Hello! Dad isn’t home right now, but he’ll be in about an hour or so.” Wilbur spoke to the person on the other side of the door, and that person hummed in understanding. “Would you like to wait for him inside? It’s pretty cold out there!” he chimed, and the visitor took a step forward inside the house. Will moved out of the way with a wide smile on his face   
“Thank you, boy. Is there a place I can hang my cloak-?” 

The voice cut off. The silence was pregnant in the room as Techno slowly lifted his gaze from the notebook to the person who just entered the household. Time felt like it was passing in slow motion as his eye registered who was standing in the doorway, their hand halfway towards the clip that held the blue, embroidered cape on their shoulders. Techno didn’t recognize their face, but he definitely recognized the clothes they were wearing – silver armor, blue and white accents on the glove, the azure hilt of the sword they had by their side; it was, without a doubt, a high-ranking knight of the Welan Kingdom. He felt his heart stop, all color draining from his face within seconds. He was found. 

“Shit-”   
“Your Majesty?”   
“Fuck.” 

He didn’t curse often. When he did though, the reason was severe enough for him to forget his upbringing and hours of etiquette lessons. A sound of a sword being drawn filled the room, and Wilbur, who seemed to have realized what he has just done, took a step back, away from the soldiers’ range of attack. All of Techno’s muscles tensed. Adrenaline began to fill his veins and he felt his wounded eye throb with the amount of blood that was rushing to his head. 

He shouldn’t have stayed; of course, this would have happened sooner or later! 

His real name rolls off the soldier’s tongue, and Techno sprang to his feet, looking around the room frantically for a weapon to protect himself with. The man took a step forward, and for a second Technoblade’s eyes stopped on Will’s figure, who with wide eyes was watching the entire scene go down. On one hand, he was just the resident of the house and had nothing to do with his escape, on the other, he could be used as a hostage, or worse, be slain during the skirmish. Techno hoped he would snap out of his shocked state and move to safety, to anywhere but the kitchen. 

“Your Majesty, on the orders of King Anastasius I will take your life as a traitor to the throne, and an assassin to the Late Queen of Wela.” the soldier spoke, and Techno’s face fell. 

A traitor? What? More importantly, King Anastasius? In less than a week, Anastasius Squid has been crowned and gained permission and support from the entire Lobby of Elders? That could have only meant that the plot to assassinate his mother and remove him from the throne was in the works for a while now, and it stung, it burned his chest from the inside out – had he not have any allies in the palace? Was his mother aware of that before she was killed? 

These questions had to be set aside, as the soldier swung his sword in a wide arc. Techno dodged, and the blade lodged itself in one of the legs of the large table, sending splinters across the room. The breath hitched in the boy’s throat as the weapon was yanked back out, and the table creaked, the now damaged leg not giving it enough support to be stable. Techno looked back at Will who was still grounded in place by the door. He clicked his tongue in distress. 

“Wilbur! Go!” He shouted, and the younger boy shuddered in shock, before nodding his head sharply and running off towards the corridor, tripping over his own legs twice on the way. 

Good. Now that Will was relatively safe- 

Techno dodged again, and tumbled under the unstable table, emerging on the other side, beyond the soldier’s reach. The man in armor groaned under his breath, and with one swift movement kicked the table aside, causing the already damaged furniture to fall apart. Phil wasn’t going to be happy about this; was a thought that appeared in the back of Techno’s mind for a second, but he pushed it aside, his will and brain fully focused on survival. Still, there was barely anything he could protect himself with. There were pans and pots next to the stove which he could use as temporary shields, and even attempt to knock out the assailant, but the probability of such maneuver succeeding was less than zero – not with the helmet, not with the size of the room and, most importantly, not with the throbbing wound that took away half of his vision. He could try to stall him and run for the door, but the chance that the man would get hooked onto the scheme was low – still, with his back to the wall, this was the best option Techno could think of. 

His mouth was dry as he spoke. 

“How did you know I was here?” Techno asked, and a joyful expression crossed the soldier’s face. He twirled the sword in his hand as if to show off his technical prowess, before he answered, his gaze mocking.   
“Chance. Most of the Sunrise Company was completely annihilated on that clearing, we couldn’t even recognize some of the bodies,” he said, and Techno listened, finding out for the first time what happened after he ran from that spot at Phil’s order. Behind his back, his hand turned the little knob on the stove, and the heating plate began dimly glowing red. “Still, there was no little royal body present, so His Majesty Anastasius assumed you’re still alive. They didn’t find Wood’s body either, I came to ask him some questions, if he was still alive, of course. I didn’t know he would be sheltering a rat.” The knight was being disrespectful, seeing that he had an advantage over the boy that he was obligated to worship for the last twelve years, one that was now cowering by the wall, awaiting execution. Meanwhile, the cogs in Techno’s head finally clicked. 

_“I use different names for different jobs. Anastasius knows me as… Roman Wood. I think. I have a lot of names.”_

He should have remembered that! Then again, since his escape, and ever since he was wounded, his memory seemed to be lapsing – forgetting small details that, Techno noticed, were linked to the incident in the clearing. Was that his mind trying to save itself from breaking? Or was it his own, subconscious choice to abandon the past? 

The stove was growing hotter behind his back. 

“Will you be paid for this?” Techno asked again, the question much dumber than the first one, but necessary to keep the knight’s attention off the rapidly warming kitchen appliance. His opponent hummed, taking a wide step over the rubble of the ruined table. They were underestimating him, and that was their first mistake. Techno’s fingers dug into the sides of the cabinet.   
“You talk a lot for someone who’s about to be killed, Your Majesty.” The man drew his arm back, switching the weight of his body to his right leg as he swung, and for a second, Techno saw the castle flash before his eyes, hundreds of hours of physical training kicking in like a reflex. He dropped down, his face now at the level of the soldier’s knee, and as he felt the blade narrowly miss the top of his head as the man above him swung his sword, Techno clenched his fist, and with as much force as he had in his twelve-year-old body, he punched the knight in the knee, wincing when he heard a sickening crack. The swordsman howled in pain, and his leg buckled, sending his entire body barreling towards the stove. 

Scent of burned flesh filled the air as the knight screamed, his voice, now higher by at least an octave pierced the air, his body flailing around as he tore his face away from the red-hot appliance. Techno rolled to the side, closer to the door and away from the man who was now grabbing at his face, the skin torn at places, and in others red and irritated. His heart was beating loudly, and for a second, he thought about running for the entrance. It wasn’t closed, Wilbur never got to close it before Techno told him to run. The cold air and snow were now seeping into the warmth of the Soot household, and within the January blizzard, Technoblade heard the floor creak. 

In the cacophony of sobs and screams, Techno turned his head, glancing into the corridor he heard the creak from. Wilbur was standing there, his body shaking slightly, forehead covered with sweat. In his hands, he was holding a sheathed sword, the green elements on the ornamental hilt strikingly similar to the pattern on the cloak Phil wore on the day of his escape. He looked back at the soldier – he was now holding the blade of his weapon up to his face, hoping to cool it down somehow. With one last push, Techno sent his body barreling towards Will, past the open door and promise of freedom, and grabbed the sword out of his hands, meeting no resistance. The blade was heavy and awkward to hold; what normal person engraved the hilt, it dug into his palms, making the sword oddly balanced. 

“Techno-”   
“Stand back.” 

He was at the clearing again, staring death right into the eyes, and he felt the same rush of blood to his head while switching his body into a combat position. One swift strike; never show your back, if you’re protecting someone cover them with your body, loosen up your muscles. He took a deep breath, locking his target on the still flailing knight, and he pushed forward, springing forth like a short-distance sprinter, the heavy sword at his shoulder height. He closed the gap quickly, and, just as if God was looking down and smiling at him, his opponent turned towards him just in time for Techno to plunge the tip right into the knight’s throat. 

Red, hot blood ran down the blade, then the hilt, then Techno’s hands. The edge of the sword cut the artery clean open, and even though the soldier grasped at the weapon, attempting to tear it away from his neck, Techno flexed his arms, and tugged it to the right, cutting open flesh and skin easily. The man in front of him screamed, sound breaking through the gurgling of blood in his damaged windpipe. He brought his sword back to attack in his last swan song, but it fell from his hand as he collapsed to his knees, the hand that was attempting to stop the bleeding growing more and more limp. Then, his eyes glazed over and his body let out a couple of last twitches, before becoming completely motionless, empty irises staring at something beyond the walls, beyond the mountains that silently guarded the borders of Wela, beyond the ages-old forests. For a second, Technoblade swore he felt a cold breath on the back of his neck, and he shivered, his hand letting go of the hilt of the sword. The weapon clattered to the wooden ground, and Techno found himself rooted to the ground, unable to move, his healthy eye fixed on the still-bleeding wound in the corpse’s throat. 

He just killed someone. 

Techno was preparing for it his whole life, really. He was taught where to strike, how fast to strike, who to strike; still, the blood burned his skin, and the reality of taking someone’s life settled in all at once. The body twitched for the last time, and Techno jumped, surprised. Everything felt off, the body was mangled on the ground, the air was stuffy, his ears were ringing, and there were suddenly two voices in the back of his head, whispering, calling him a killer. Lips pressed into a thin line, he pressed both of his hands against his ears, attempting to drown them out, but the sound was coming not from the outside, but from the inside of his body, and they only got louder when he blocked any external noise. 

_-are you okay?_  
_Look what you have done._  
_Calm down. Breathe._  
_Murderer. How dare you._  
_You did what you had to-_  
_You’ll pay for this._

“Techno?” someone placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Techno flinched, snapping his head back in panic. It was Will, his face pale and eyes empty, furiously trying not to look at the corpse on the floor. The stove was crackling, remnants of skin that stuck to the heating plates now charred and smoking. With a shaky hand, Will reached around Techno and turned the knob to zero, cutting the power. His eyes stopped on the puddle of blood on the floor just for a moment, and he took a shaky breath, supporting his body weight on the nearby cupboard when his knees gave out. “What have we done?”   
“We?” Techno raised his eyebrows, and the voices both hummed in agreement at his confusion. “You didn’t do anything, Will. I killed- I killed him.”   
“I opened the door! I let him in and then gave you the weapon to kill him with!” Will shouted, his voice breaking. His skin was so pale that you could compare it to the pages of the notebook that now laid dirtied and torn under the remains of the table. “Oh God, what is dad going to say-” 

At that moment, Techno felt pity. Though he was shaken as well, he was at least taught what to do; Will was just a child who was dropped into this situation because Techno was there – he brought destruction and misfortune. His hands twitched, and before he could think twice about what he was about to do, he wrapped his arms around Wilbur’s shaking form, gently pressing his face against his clavicle. Wilbur hiccupped once, then twice, and then Techno felt wetness on his shirt, hot, scalding; Will was crying, silently shedding tears of fear, confusion, and abandonment of childhood that with a corpse under his feet felt like a long-lost memory. He cried for a long while, and Techno just stood there, the blood pooling under his feet, irreversibly staining the wooden floor. He didn’t notice the wetness of his own cheeks, forgotten in the pure onslaught of other emotions and Will’s shakes. 

Techno wasn’t sure how long has passed until Wilbur finally stopped crying, and separated himself from him. The door was still open, and the air inside the house was now frigid, completely erasing any form of comfort that could have been once inhibiting it. The fireplace was still lit, but it was struggling against the wind that blew into the room; Techno shivered. 

“We have to clean this up,” Wilbur spoke, his voice quiet and raspy. “Before dad comes home.”   
“Do you want to hide the fact that all of this happened?” Techno asked, and Will frowned, reluctantly looking at the, now cold, corpse. He took one step forward, just to take it back when his foot touched the pool of quickly coagulating and drying blood.   
“Yes. I think so. He has enough problems.” 

Wilbur was still shaking, his eyes struggling to lock onto the carnage. Techno’s face fell. Neither of them was in any state to deal with this at that moment. Thus, he gently grabbed Will by the shoulder, pushing him away from the kitchen. 

“Let’s get cleaned up first,” he muttered, and the boy stared at him blankly for a moment, a thousand thoughts running through his head at once, before he allowed himself to be led out of the frigid room, into the lukewarm corridor, and finally into a warm bathroom. While Will himself wasn’t covered in blood like Techno was, his face was still bathed in sweat, his messy hair sticking to his forehead. He raised his hand gently to wipe his forehead off, but he backed away at the last moment, unsure if the sudden movement would startle the freshly scarred child in front of him. 

Guilt. 

Guilt was eating him alive, and Techno felt sick. For a split second, something rumbled in his head uncomfortably, and he plugged his ears again, waiting for the formless whispers to stop. He was already aware of what he has done, but they kept repeating it, repeating it, repeating it, repeating it, repeating it, repeating it, repeating it; it was driving him insane.   
It was Wilbur who spoke up, most likely when he noticed Techno’s discomfort.   
“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked, and Techno opened his eyes he didn’t even notice he closed tightly. Looking over himself, he didn’t find any major wounds, aside from some bruises here and there, caused by him throwing himself on the floor or against furniture to avoid the strikes during the fight. His lips were dry as he answered.   
“Just some bruises. You don’t have to worry about these,” he muttered, and Wilbur sighed, for a moment going back to his teasing persona. He turned around and reached into the cabinet over the simple sink, his hands shuffling through jars and packages. It took him a moment to find what he was looking for, but his face lit up when he found it, and, carefully, he retrieved a jar from the very back. The creamy substance reeked of herbs as Will uncapped it.   
“Show me.”   
“You really don’t have to.”   
“Please.” 

Technoblade was terrible with peer pressure. 

Slowly, making sure that he wouldn’t rip it or damage it beyond it being bloodied and dirty, Techno removed his shirt, revealing a few small, blooming bruises along his ribcage and arms. Will got to work, applying a small amount of the salve on every bruise, rubbing it in gently, and ignoring Techno’s hisses of discomfort when he touched the tender skin.   
“Is your eye okay? I mean, did the wound re-open? Because it is definitely not okay, that much I know-” Wilbur said, quickly glancing at Techno’s face, looking over his bandages to check if any blood seeped through them.   
“It’s fine, I think. It doesn’t hurt more than it did before.”   
“That’s good. I’m glad.” 

Their conversation was dry, but neither of them had the physical or mental strength to keep up a conversation. No one would if they were placed in that situation. Two children, seeking each other's warmth in a small bathroom, trying to forget the heavy, thick scent of blood that was stuck in the back of their minds as they took care of each other. Techno broke through his embarrassed stupor, and finally wiped Will’s forehead with the back of his hand. 

The small smile Will sent his way made it worth it. 

Wilbur was almost done with the bruises when a loud bang came from the kitchen, and Will screamed in fear, dropping the jar which shattered on the floor. Techno’s heart stopped, and he looked at the door in panic, saying a quiet thank you to his past self for closing the door behind them. 

“Will?” Someone called out, and for a moment, neither of them recognized the voice. “Will?! Techno?! Boys?! Where are you!” The voice rang out again, followed by hurried footsteps across the house, heading rapidly in their direction. Technoblade knew that voice, it was familiar, it was sun, it was comfort. 

The door to the bathroom slammed open. 

Phil. 

His face was deadly pale, and he was breathing heavily, his eyes wild. The moment his eyes locked on the two children sat on the floor, however, all tension fell from his face, and he dropped to the floor, his face in his hands. Will sprang to his feet, first, making his way towards his dad, questions about his wellbeing and state of health on his tongue. It took Techno a bit longer to get up. His mind was full. Phil has seen what happened in the kitchen, right? Finally, he saw what happens when you stay close to him; misfortune, pain, trauma. 

“Come here, Techno,” Phil said, and, with his mind still on the topic of the corpse in the kitchen, he obliged. Without another word, Phil pulled both of the boys into a hug, letting out a long, shaky breath. Technoblade tensed up instantly. This was the last thing he was expecting. “God, I thought I lost you both.”   
“What-?”   
“No, we’re okay! We’re okay! See? No one was hurt, we’re okay!” Wilbur started to babble, attempting to reassure his dad, and he threw a glance towards Techno, who got the point pretty quick.   
“Yes, we’re okay, Philza. Calm down.” 

Phil didn’t answer but instead planted a warm kiss on Wilbur’s forehead, and another one to the crown of Techno’s head, whose head went completely blank at the gesture. Why? Why did he care? He couldn’t understand, he’s been trying to understand for the last couple of days – Phil had nothing to gain from housing him, and from caring about his wellbeing, quite the opposite actually, as suggested by the dead body in the other room. 

Did Phil truly not want anything from him? 

Could anyone be that kind? 

There was a wall in Techno’s mind that has slowly begun to crumble, and that small show of affection from Phil was like placing an explosive at its foundation. Having been betrayed, abandoned, backstabbed, it was hard to trust anyone. But Phil was right there, he was holding him close and offering him sanctuary – and that was something no one did ever since his mother died. Gently, he rested his head on Phil’s shoulder, and the man asked him, gently stroking the top of his head. 

“Would you mind telling me what happened, Techno? I don’t think Will is in any state to talk right now.”

Techno smiled. 

“Of course.” 

*** 

The sun barely began setting when Wilbur and Technoblade covered themselves with their soft, warm sheets, completely silent as their heads hit their respective pillows. Phil asked them gently to retire early, and who were they to say no when their emotional states were frayed and, quite frankly, spent. 

Aside from pushing them towards the bedroom, the man also claimed that he was going to clean up the kitchen and that there would be nothing there in the morning. 

One thing off Techno’s chest. 

Wilbur shuffled under the covers, his head emerging to look Techno right in the eyes. Now that he was so close and bathed in natural light, he could see Will’s red eyes and pale skin up close, and once again that day, something squeezed in his chest. Pity. That’s what he felt. Pity. 

“Thank you for saving me today, Techno,” Will spoke, and Techno’s eyes widened.   
“I did no such thing. The guy was after my head, he wouldn’t have done anything to you,” he answered, and Will shook his head, his hands clenching the sheets in distress.   
“That’s not how it works Techno. I read books, and in these books, when a target is eliminated, everyone is silenced.” He whispered, and Techno frowned. “No matter if you like it or not, you saved me tonight, and I owe you a big favor now.”   
“Hey, I did what I did because you gave me a weapon. I don’t think we would be laying here if you didn’t” 

Wilbur took a sharp breath and Techno panicked. 

“Wait, I didn’t mean it like that-” he stuttered, but Will cut his soon-to-be apology short by speaking over him.   
“You’re right. We wouldn’t.” he turned, so he laid on his side rather than on his back. His eyes were glassy again. “Still, am I allowed to feel bad? He was a bad person, he tried to kill you – but I still feel bad that he’s dead. I don’t know how to feel, Techno. I don’t know.” 

Technoblade didn’t know how to answer that. He wasn’t good with words. Thus, he did the next best thing he could think of. 

“Do you want me to tell you a story?” he asked, and, even though his eyes were empty and hollow, Will smiled.   
“Yeah.” 

They slept holding hands that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooh god this one  
> I took a little break from writing because I felt like I was rushing this scene in the plot - listen, in my head, it's obvious that they would start looking for techno the MOMENT no body was delivered back to the castle or found. I know this is only chapter 4 but I really wanted to pace this better hnng  
> pulling out hair from my scalp right now  
> I need a couple of slow filler chapters now, sprinkle some lore in
> 
> thank you for sticking with me!  
> happy late New Years!


	5. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philza ponders about the fate of his family.  
> 

A house. A home. 

A place where memories are made, where childhood, bright and warm, fades into adulthood in the loving embrace of one’s parents. A place where you learn all the skills you may need in the real world, from speaking and walking to cooking and sewing. It’s a gentle place that lulls you in its arms to sleep every night, surrounding you in comfort and solace, singing a song of good dreams and pleasant awakenings. A place where you belong, where you can always return when weary on the road, a place which will welcome you no matter the time of day. 

When Philza built his house with his own two hands, from foundation to the roof, he didn’t expect to stay in the area for long. Just until Wilbur was born, he told himself as he made sure the walls didn’t let through any of the freezing wind that made the area it's own; just until Wilbur was old enough to get on the road with him. 

And then he stayed, putting down roots in the snow, becoming an oak in an eternal forest that surrounded his home. Just like a tree, he grew, and so did his son, sprouting from the soil and becoming a sapling that would one day become as powerful as his father. 

Phil cringed as he scrubbed the floor of his kitchen with a wet cloth. Dark stains were blooming underneath the dried blood, and the man was fully aware that they would most likely never fully come out; still, he rubbed at the wood until the rag began to rip, and until the frustration that gathered in his muscles began slowly leaving his body. The entire kitchen was a mess - not surprising, considering what Techno told him went down in that small, confined space. The walls, the cupboards, and even the kitchen appliances were sprayed with, already dry, blood, and Phil felt his muscles scream in protest as he thought about how much cleaning there was left to do. The moon was already high in the sky, and the only thing that was "cleaned up" for real was the corpse that was now buried in the snow outside, preserved until Phil would get rid of it when he'd done with the inside of his house. 

His house. His sanctuary. A place of peace he built with his own hands. 

_Filthy_. 

Phil's hands curled around a piece of wooden debris that littered the floor, and it cracked under the sheer strength with which he squeezed it. He was angry; he was livid. He gathered as many pieces of the table as he could in his hands, before throwing it onto the pile of firewood in the corner. At least he won't have to cut any more trees any time soon, he thought to himself bitterly, eyes tracing the familiar stains on the, now destroyed, table. 

The man looked back at the aftermath of a battle for survival that took place in the kitchen, and he sighed, running a bloodied hand through his blonde hair. This was not something he expected; scratch that, he did not expect it all. They weren't in Wela anymore. Welan troops should not have any access to this country, the borders were protected, there were regular patrols, part in which he often took himself, and, most importantly, the tension between Wela and Remia - there was no way a Welan knight just wandered into Remian territory. 

That meant, Phil thought as he scrubbed the stove clean, cringing at the stench of burnt meat, that someone was purposefully looking for something here. From the look in Techno’s eyes and the shaking in his shoulders, Phil was almost sure that the thing they were looking for was the corpse of the crown prince. 

That did not bode well, for both him and Wilbur. 

Then again, he rationalized as he decided to quickly sew together a hole or two in the couch, it was not Techno's fault that he was pursued. From what Phil gathered from his intelligence network, the coup that killed his mother was long in the works - not like he had the heart to tell him that right now. Technoblade was just running, using his primal instinct to survive, and if there was anyone to blame for the danger that loomed over the home hidden in the trees, it was Phil, who stopped him from leaving just one day after the battle. 

The couch didn't look any better when he was done. Phil opted to ignore the fact that his stitches were crooked and weak; Wilbur would redo them when he would feel better anyways. 

He poured out yet another bucket of blood-colored water outside of the door, the red seeping into the pure white powder that covered the sleeping mountains. He shivered, his feverish, sweaty skin nipped by the frost, but his eyes were trained on the small mound by the entrance of the forest. With an angry growl, Phil slammed the door closed, looking around in a panic when he realized that it could have woken up the kids. The corridor was quiet, however, and Phil exhaled shakily, gently patting his chest to calm himself down. 

There was a pile of clothes and armor in the corner; Phil had to strip the corpse bare before burying it. People can be easily identified by clothes; thus, they would have to be burned, and the armor sold to a peddler sworn to secrecy. They reeked of sweat, blood, and alcohol - it was the worst combination when it came to being a knight, or any physical worker of any sort. Phil weighed the armor in his hands. It was a lighter version of the standard Welan battle gear, designed for traveling; it couldn't weigh more than twenty kilograms. Full gear or not, it would put a coin in his pocket, and gently, Phil put the armor aside, cringing at the fact that he had to pick up the clothes again. He wasn't good with strong smells. Still, he rolled up the linen shirt, cloak, gloves, and underwear, along with a pair of very worn-out socks into a ball and threw them into the fireplace, watching as the flames consumed the thin material within minutes. It gave him a bit of solace, seeing it gone. 

The pants were the only part of the outfit that wasn't burned by that point, and the only reason for that was that the fireplace was small and Phil didn't want to extinguish the fire. Only when he made sure that there is enough space did he pick it up with a grimace on his face. In what could be considered a shameful move to some, he quickly frisked the pockets for any money or personal items that could be problematic to burn - Phil didn't feel bad about that. The man walked into his home with intention of hurting him and his son and then destroyed his house. This was the least he could give back to repay for the damages. 

Sixteen silver and two gold - a two days' worth of meal money and just enough for bed in an inn. The man was traveling from afar, he could have already been on his way back to Wela when he received orders to... To do what exactly? 

Phil frowned as he opened yet another pocket. Trash, more trash, a lockpick, a handkerchief. Finally, Phil's fingers curled around a piece of paper, way too well-pressed to be random junk stored to be thrown out. It was twice-folded, and or surprising quality, Phil thought as he threw the pants into the fire, opening up the small leaflets. 

For a split second, he saw white. 

A pair of red, bright eyes stared back at him from the leaflet. Locks of gentle pink framed the face of a familiar child, and it looked right through Phil, face full of excitement and delight at being painted. It was Techno, well, it used to be - the kid on the picture was unhurt, his skin pristine and body unbruised. He was wearing a golden crown adorned with red, green, and blue, as well as a rich robe, finished up with Welan coat of arms. Most importantly, however, Technoblade was smiling, widely, and honestly. It was a heartwarming sight, Phil thought, before his eyes switched to the text underneath the image, at the sight of which his mood decreased even more than the low that it already was in. 

_Wanted, Dead_ _or_ _Alive_

_Ex Crown Prince of House of Wela_

_Pursued for murder of his mother, Late Queen of Wela, treason against the Kingdom, as well as mass murder of members of The Sunrise Company._

_To anyone who delivers the prince or his corpse to The Royal Guard, a rich reward is prepared, consisting of, but not only, twenty units of gold, a title, and land to call their own, exempt from taxes._

_Signed,_

_His Royal Majesty, King of Vela, Anastasius Augustus Albert of House Squid._

Phil swallowed, his throat dry enough to cause him pain. That wasn't good, that was the exact opposite of what someone would call good. He looked back at the picture, a pair of innocent eyes staring right back. Was that Techno's coming of age portrait? It must have been started well in advance - he didn't look a day older than ten years old. He grimaced. Ever since he took that job for The Sunrise Company, there was nothing but pain and complications in his life; home intrusions, pesky patrollers, people inquiring who was he buying additional supplies for. 

It was Techno, he thought, Techno was the source of his troubles. 

Still, he couldn't bring himself to kick him out. Techno was a child; thrown into a war he didn't cause just because he was born in a palace and not in a village home. That and the fact that Wilbur seemed incredibly attached to his prince friend were the only two things that held Phil from dropping Techno off in the middle of a forest and flying away, severing his connection to the nucleus to the problem that was Technoblade. 

Well, that and the fact that he genuinely felt bad. No one deserved to be treated like that by people who were supposed to be trusted, to guide him into adulthood and help him become a good human being. 

Without any further words, Philza crinkled the paper into a ball and threw it into the fireplace, the material instantly igniting and joining the blazing inferno. He would not keep Techno in his house forever, that was crystal clear. It was way too dangerous to keep a fugitive under his roof, especially one of such caliber. Considering what happened just earlier that day, documented by dark stains on the floor and ruins of furniture by the fire, the repercussions of such actions would be deadly, for him, and his son. 

Still, Techno slept in his son's bed, the two holding hands as they clutched onto each other for dear life, keeping themselves in a dreamless stasis just through touch, and Phil couldn't ignore such an honest bond. 

Just until Techno gets better, he thought as he swept the floor, getting any remaining splinters and dirt into a pile. Just until then, he would shelter him. After that? Who knows, maybe he'll introduce him to traveling merchants, they always take in apprentices. 

"Anywhere but my home," Phil muttered as he swept the trash out of the door. "I can't do this forever." 

He built his home outside of Welan borders for a reason. He didn't want anything to do with that country after he left his job as the Crypt Keeper, and he most certainly did not expect the crown prince of the country he so dearly detested to just waltz into his life, make him feel pity, and find a spot within walls Phil created with his own two hands. Welan patrollers knew him well, he did odd shifts at the border for pocket money during winter, but that would not stop them from killing him on the spot if they ever found out about who was sleeping underneath his sheets, in the clothes he bought. The moment he identified the knight who Techno and Will killed, he sent out a crow to his border patrol friends claiming that he saw the man deserting, accompanied by Remian civilians. He prayed that his good reputation within the ranks would make them believe him without question; it was all that he could do at that moment, aside from gathering all his things, burning down the cottage and running away, avoiding punishment that would surely come his way. 

He cracked his fingers, and wrapped a thick scarf around his neck, big enough to cover his face just in case. He grabbed the shovel he prepared beforehand, and with a deep, defeated sigh, disappeared into the night, heading into the direction of the thick, dark forest, making a pit stop by the snow mound before his silhouette disappeared completely between the trees. 

It was dawn when he came back, and threw himself onto the barely patched up couch, mourning his hurting back. Not only was the knight stiff, but he was also heavy, which made burying him much more difficult. Eventually, Phil succeeded, disposing of the body head down, deep enough for search dogs not to find them. Just in case, however, Phil killed a rabbit on the way, and placed the carcass on top of the body, just under the soil - if any of the dogs began digging in that spot, they would find the rabbit and would be urged to move on. 

Maximum discretion. No blood marks. No body parts. Not even hair that could fall off the corpse. Philza made sure his tracks were covered, and he felt no remorse when he bent the joints until they cracked when he shoved the knight into the narrow, deep hole in the ground. No one comes into his life intending to hurt his family and comes out in one piece. 

A log crackled loudly, and Phil jumped, startled. His eyes were heavy and body tired, but he knew he would not get any sleep even if he had laid down, so he just sat there, on the couch, staring blankly at the remnants of gore on the floor.

He would have to make a decision eventually; he knew that well. Should Techno go, or should he stay - it was the biggest dilemma Philza was put in front of since he left his country of birthright with his son in his arms, wrapped up in a tattered flag and blankets covered in feathers. 

His face was warm as he made a definite decision. 

Phil made sure everything in the fireplace burned, cloth and paper. For now, Technoblade had to heal, and Phil had to keep him, and by extension his entire family, safe. It was time to employ underhanded tactics, he thought as he grabbed potion supplies, and, rubbing the lack of sleep away from his eyes, left home again. The house was quiet again, filled with restless dreams of two boys who held each other close as they slept. 

Tomorrow they would have to be adults who deal with the repercussions of their actions.  
Tonight, they were children, terrified and scared, children, who looked death in the eye and lived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short Philza-centric chapter to get back into the swing of things. Midterm season is over for polish universities, and I can't wait to pump out 10k+ chapters again we  
> Anyways, Philza Minecraft??? Burying a body? More likely than you think. I honestly think that Phil is very underappreciated in all SBI-centric fics; mans got trauma, and I'm gonna fuel it here. Also what's that, Phil isn't from Remia OR Wela? New country introduced? I am so excited to pull this narrative, but for now - a therapist for the boys is in order. 
> 
> As always, find me @SummoningFailed on Twitter to beat me up and maybe even mug me, I am very weak.  
> Stay safe!


End file.
